


Credens Furtiva (Stolen Trust)

by Maygra



Series: To Make of Heaven, Earth [4]
Category: Magnificent Seven (TV)
Genre: ATF, M/M, Third in the To Make of Heaven Earth arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2004-01-13
Updated: 2004-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-09 10:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 162,656
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/86338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maygra/pseuds/Maygra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p><b>Author's notes: </b>Normally I make author's notes an optional part of any story I write, but bear with me here. What I know of the actual operational ethics or practices and policies of the ATF or any other Federal enforcement agency is largely speculative, extrapolated from what little I have been able to find in the references listed above. A portion of this story deals with the change in the awareness of terrorism and its repercussions in the wake of the September 11 attacks. It does not deal directly with that tragedy. As far as I know, the "Acceptable Hostage Loss" clause does not nor ever has or will exist within the procedural policies of the ATF. It is, however, what I think of as a reasonable extrapolation to any situation dealing with terrorism. In so far as the new awareness has left standing orders to allow military jets to force down any plane treading in unauthorized airspace, regardless or perhaps in respect to the possible lives on such a diverted plane or lives on the ground. Please be aware that I neither condone nor reject such an extreme measure, either in real life or in fiction -- it was and is presented as a possibility, a course of action that has serious consequences, and a topic that I felt the desire to explore. (And very possibly, because I've watched the replay viewing of "Speed" one too many times in the past few months.) MdR. 1/5/2004</p><p><b>Rating: </b>NC17 for sex and violence<br/><b>Pairing: </b>C/V established relationship<br/><b>Universe: </b>ATF</p><p><b>Acknowledgments:</b> There is no way I can adequately express my gratitude and appreciation to my betas, Antoinette & Megan, who not only polished until this story shone, but who kept me on task and wrangled more than one straying plot line into submission. The story and I are much richer for their assistance and care. Thank you, Ladies! ~maygra</p></blockquote>





	1. Chapters 1-5

#  Credens Furtiva (Stolen Trust)

  
Part III of the "To Make of Heaven, Earth" arc  
by Maygra  
(1067k, 162,749 words)

References: ATF Online (http://www.atf.treas.gov/) Moore, James , ATF (Ret.) Very Special Agents: the inside story of America's most controversial law enforcement agency--The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms. University of Illinois Press, Champaign, IL, 2001. (Originally published: New York: Pocket Books, 1997).

##  ~Chapter One~

** Sunday, 8:52 a.m., Our Savior Episcopal Church**

Take it, take it, take the shot... Chris Larabee chanted to himself silently, a mantra as he watched Deke Hollinger cross the broad parquet floor of Our Savior Episcopal church. He dragged the priest along with him: Hollinger's arm around the man's throat and a gun in his hand. His free hand was waving a homemade remote trigger as he spouted off the same apocalyptic bullshit he'd been spouting for the last hour. The press outside was just waiting for it, Denver PD with their hands full trying to keep them out of range, forcibly taking people's cell phones and radios and making the vans shut down for fear of accidentally tripping whatever signal or frequency Hollinger was using on his trigger.

Until now neither the feds nor the local PD had known who was responsible for three other church explosions in the last three months. And they didn't know why. Now they had a name but Hollinger's rationale still made no sense and likely wouldn't. The ATF didn't have any real good plans to keep him alive enough to find out, not with a hundred hostages and enough explosives to take out a good chunk of the real estate close by the church.

Hollinger's first attack had come just after Thanksgiving; the building empty but the property damage had been high. The next had also been with no casualties except to architecture and the spirit and faith of the people who had attended the large Lutheran church. But the latest had followed a late night service on Christmas Eve at a Catholic Church. The church had been empty save for a deacon and three parishioners, sitting vigil in the smaller chapel on the grounds. One death and minor injuries among the other victims. With the severity of the attacks increasing, and a body count started, federal and state law enforcement had been working almost non-stop to find the person or people responsible, but they'd had little to go on -- the churches all different, no clear motive apparent, until Deke Hollinger had shown up at Our Savior and begun preaching to his hostage audience.

The potential increase in the body count had only added to the pressure of an already explosive situation. -- and Chris Larabee didn't even flinch at the pun in that thought. There was no other way to describe the situation he found himself and his ATF team in at the moment. Explosive, dangerously so. The church sanctuary was half full of early morning worshippers, most of them crouched below the pews but a few watched, terrorized. They had two wounded deacons near the front, who'd tried to keep Hollinger from their rector, and as near as Nathan could tell, they were holding out but they couldn't last forever in this weather. From one death to a hundred and Chris swallowed heavily, his eyes sliding over the few people he could see. No lack of demographics here, unlike the racially motivated bombings and fires in the deep south that had been going on for years. No, Hollinger's hatred went beyond race or age.

He could hear a couple of kids crying, sniffling, held in their mothers' arms, protected by their fathers, the soft whispered murmurs and sobs totally ignored by Hollinger as he preached his words, over and over until Chris had them practically memorized.

//You pray to a false God for deliverance, you worship in houses built on blood and toil, you have no right to the salvation offered...// On and on and Josiah could hardly begin to guess at what drove the man. Buck's opinion was the man was on crack.

Might be true. He had the wild-eyed look of an addict and Chris kept hoping maybe he'd come down, but he hadn't. Hollinger's voice was hoarse from his preaching and the priest was stumbling. Father Barrett had to be sixty if he was a day and worry and strain were taking their toll.

They'd asked Hollinger what he wanted and got curses. They offered him anything to let a few people escape the sanctuary and he'd taken shots at the stained glass windows, raining glass down on his hostages. The room was freezing, harsher than normal January winds rushing through the hall and the open main doors, through the broken windows like the furies themselves. Every now and then a whiff of urine and incense would assault Chris' nose -- more than one dirty pair of pull up pants and a few more mature items of clothing unable to keep that obvious sign of fear from reaching him. And scared people did stupid things and these people had every right to be literally scared shitless. Chris was.

The bomb squad was close by and had already managed to find a few of the devices scattered around the church and basement and meeting rooms. There were more explosives, here, in the sanctuary. Hollinger had taken up a position in the altar alcove with no doors and no windows, his position giving the ATF and the Denver PD no access. The front pew was filled with terrified choir members who were all standing like a living barrier between Hollinger and the outside wall. No one had been able to get a shot off. Yet.

Vin wasn't sure he could make the shot. He'd whispered as much to Chris only moments before, finally set up on the second floor of the clinic next door and the narrowest of openings available to him, ironically because Hollinger had shot the window out. But it was bad. Bad angle, bad range and Vin's doubt had been like acid on a burn. Three feet was all the give he had: when Hollinger crossed to the far side and then would turn to pace back again. Every turn put the priest right in Vin's line of fire, Hollinger staying face out with the priest as a living shield, almost as if he knew there was a gun tracking him. The broken glass, the choir, the darkness of the area and Chris heard Vin curse again when Hollinger made the same turn.

Josiah kept trying to talk to the man when he reached the edge of his pacing, trying to get him to face out. He and Chris both hoping Vin could get him in the back of the head, all of them too aware of what the sharpshooter was up against and knowing as Chris did, that to wait much longer might mean sacrificing a hostage to put the man down.

Chris was ready to do just that. What the bomb squad had already found was likely to take not only the church but the block as well. "Seven-four," Chris whispered, watching the priest falter and almost fall and Hollinger jerk the old man back to his feet. Hollinger was growing more and more agitated, the gun slipping from around the priest's neck to his temple and back again. There were screams then when he fired toward the ceiling and beside him Buck swore, Chris' stomach clenching while Hollinger ordered the choir to say where they were. "You have to take the shot, Vin. Best one you can, any way you can."

"Civilian casualty likely," Vin said, voice terse and hard and Chris swallowed again. As hard as it was to give the order, he wasn't the one that would have to live with Father Barrett's blood on his conscience, not directly, not like Vin would.

"Civilian casualty acknowledged," Chris said, giving form and substance to the order and it was a cold and soulless way to talk about the loss of an innocent life. But there were more here, more lives and those beyond, including his team and the police, and Vin, if the whole area went up. Oklahoma City and Waco and the 9-11 losses burned his soul and brain. This was terrorism as well and the ATF was done with playing soft ball with lunatics.

"Fuck," Vin said softly and Chris closed his eyes briefly, wishing he could ask Vin to forgive him, but he was in a church and maybe there was some kind of forgiveness here if not there.

Hollinger was still walking and had reached the end of his turn and it was now or never. Chris tensed and felt Buck do the same beside him. If Vin missed they would have the follow up and with a line of people in front of them, it wouldn't be only Vin who had to deal with innocent blood.

Hollinger hit the end of his self-defined patrol and Chris waited for the shot, but he never heard it. He heard the bells, calling people to the 9:00 mass, and saw Hollinger look up, the priest as well, his head falling back. Then the bells were drowned out by screaming and noise and Chris and Buck and everyone yelling at the hostages to stay down. The choir turned and added to the screaming as Hollinger fell back to the left and the priest to the right, bright blood fountaining over Hollinger's front from the bullet that had ripped his throat wide open. Chris watched time slow down as the fingers opened on the gun but tightened on the remote and a second shot came, placed high on Hollinger's forehead. Body and gun and remote dropped and Chris was moving, up the center aisle, Buck beside him. He could see Ezra at a flat out run up the side aisle, Nathan at his heels. Ezra reached the remote and made sure it didn't accidentally get kicked or trampled as people started to realize it was over.

Nathan checked Hollinger briefly, then went to the priest and found that while he had blood all over him, none of it was his. He moved on to the two wounded men in the second row, making sure they didn't lose them before the paramedics could get to them. Josiah and JD started moving people out, the DPD appearing to help keep it orderly, or as orderly as they could, while the bomb squad moved in.

Chaos reined for a few minutes, long minutes, as they evacuated the church, pushed the barricades back a few blocks so the bomb squad could do their thing and Chris started breathing again. "Seven-one to seven four," he switched over and waited.

"Four," Vin responded but his voice was flat, his response on automatic.

"It's clear, Vin. Come on in."

"Four out," Vin said and Chris rubbed his eyes. He checked with the captain of the bomb squad and made sure his Team was mostly together before he turned the scene over to the forensics team and the coroner and the division commander, Lawrence McCall.

"You did good, Chris. Tell Tanner he did as well," McCall said and Chris nodded and accepted the man's pat on his shoulder, very glad McCall would have to deal with the press and the overall mop up. He hurt all over from tension, stomach sour as the last hit of adrenaline washed over him and settled.

Buck fell in beside him as they made their way back to their vehicles, to load out equipment and take a few minutes to clear their brains. It was a commotion beyond the barricades that caught Chris' attention and Ezra was already on the move, the look on his face boding well for no man or woman.

They had Vin pinned in the doorway of the clinic, the police trying to hold them back but there were cameras and microphones and most of all just bodies, pressing the sharpshooter back. Vin was doing his best to keep his head down, ignore them and push past them, but he had the gun case and the railing on either side kept him from a wider escape plan.

Ezra reached him first, Chris behind and Josiah and Buck using sheer size and bulk to shoulder the reporters aside, the half dozen police officers finally getting a clue and opening a path. Like a living barrier, the rest of Team 7 flanked Vin, gave him room to breathe, to move, and JD took the case, pulling it from Vin's unresisting fingers.

The reporters didn't give up easily though -- they smelled fresh blood in the air and the hero of Our Savior would give their ratings a boost.

"Why did you wait so long?"

"How many were there?"

"Did you hit any of the hostages?"

Chris reached out to grip Vin's arm as he watched the tan face pale, even though Vin still had his head down and kept moving. On the other side, Ezra pressed a little closer, not holding Vin, but there. Behind them he felt, rather than saw, Buck and Josiah once more use their size and the truly intimidating expressions both could summon at will to hold the reporters off. They only needed a few seconds to get Vin beyond the open area and past the vehicles where unauthorized personnel were as likely to get shot as arrested.

In the grassy area between their three vehicles and the command station, the snow had been trampled to the dirt below: brown, washed out grass showing through the icy patches. Nathan stepped up to two of the uniformed officers and told them on no uncertain terms that the next person who came past this point better have a badge or Nathan would have theirs.

Vin leaned back against the side of Chris' Ram, finally obscured from eyes and cameras, but not from his own team.

"Priest is okay...right?" he finally said into the silence that wasn't really silence. There was noise all around them, sirens and voices from the hostages, the standby med teams, babies and children crying and a few adults as well.

"He's fine, Vin," Nathan said calmly. "Shaken up but fine."

"I couldn't see...after the shot...people moving," Vin said and swallowed and Chris reached out to grip his shoulder, stomach souring further.

"Vin," Nathan said softly looking over his shoulder and Vin looked to see Buck and Josiah once more forming a barrier as Father Barrett walked between them. A glare from Josiah warned the reporters off once again.

Someone had given the priest a coat but the blood on his stole and surplice was still obvious. "Agent Tanner," he said and Vin pulled his cap off, looking shocked and dismayed but covering his reaction quickly, presenting nothing but a remote mask to the priest.

"Sir..." he said and Chris stood right behind him.

"I wanted to say....thank you," Father Barrett murmured. "It seems an odd thing to say to a man who has just killed another but..."

Chris fought back the urge to shove the priest away, seeing the tension in Vin's body and at the same time recognizing that Barrett was probably still in shock.

"...but I do thank you. For saving me, my parish...my friends..." he said. "This is...I'm sorry. I just wanted to say thank you. I'll keep you in my prayers."

Vin couldn't do anything but nod and he dropped his gaze as the man was escorted out, his position and title giving him protection from the reporters as Vin's had not.

Chris saw the change come over Vin's face before anyone else did and blocked any view of the sharpshooter with his body and saw Ezra do the same as Vin doubled over and was mercilessly sick all over the torn up snow. Chris rubbed his back a little and waited, the others looking down or out, not any more embarrassed for Vin than Chris was but it was easy to see they all felt a little helpless.

JD pulled a bottle of Gatorade from the kit and waited until Vin looked like he was done before he offered it to him and got a soft thank you from Vin.

"Nathan, Ezra, Vin, pack in your gear and head back. Get started on the prelims. We'll get the rest from McCall and the bomb captain," Chris said. They needed to be doing something. Hell, he needed to be doing something. They had done well. "We did good, guys. We did," he said and got a few nods before Vin pushed himself away from the truck to get his gear and move it to Nathan's truck.

Chris took a breath and pulled at the straps on his vest. He felt the weight of it as he hadn't before. "Come on, Buck, let's find McCall," he said and swapped the vest for his jacket, almost glad of the cold. It gave him a far better rationale for feeling so numb than the more obvious one.

The details were also mind numbing but it kept him and Buck busy for the next hour, JD and Josiah played runners and made sure all of Team 7's gear was stowed and watched. By the time McCall cleared them from the scene Chris almost had enough distance from it all to make a difference. They had their assignment as well, to find out where and how Hollinger had gotten the explosives. At least with a name they could find an address, maybe a motive. They had more than enough tape on Hollinger's rantings and with a kind of morbid fascination, Josiah was ready to tackle them -- if only to make sure there weren't any other little Hollingers running around.

There were a few congratulations as they made it through the building up to their offices on the eleventh floor and finally reached a semblance of silence that was truly silent. Nathan was on the phone but he was listening more than talking, and Ezra was doing his write up, as was Vin. All three had shed the heavy flak jackets and looked as rumpled and tired as Chris felt -- even Ezra. Vin managed to look rumpled even though it was obvious he'd showered, dark hair pulled back severely into a pony tail and still wet. He glanced up as the rest of the team entered and took their well meant inquiries into his mental and physical health with a ghost of a smile and even one wisecrack for Buck.

It was forced though and Chris eyed his sharpshooter carefully until Vin caught him looking and, with a sigh, rose to join Chris in his office, leaving the door open.

"I'm almost done," Vin said, referring to his report by jerking his head toward his desk and his computer -- but he might as easily have been gesturing to the moon. Chris didn't give a damn about the report at the moment.

"You want to talk to somebody, Vin?" he asked, because he needed to and he really thought Vin needed to talk and not necessarily to him or to Josiah. He'd have to anyway, the inquiry into the fatal shot was as routine and automatic as a sunrise.

Vin met his gaze and shook his head slightly. "Not 'cept what I have to. It was just a bad shot," he said quietly.

"You got him, Vin," Chris reminded him and didn't flinch under the scowl.

"On the second," Vin snarled softly at him.

"Dead is still dead, Vin," Chris said, voice flat but not hard. He wasn't angry, but he was worried.

Vin looked away. "I'm almost done."

"Finish it up and take the rest of the day off," Chris said, not knowing what else to offer. Vin was strung tight and it would take time for him to work it out. "Go up to the ranch and I'll..."

"No. I'm going home," Vin said. "Just as soon as I finish. Alone," he added more softly so his voice wouldn't carry.

"Vin..." Chris wanted to tell him no, but telling Vin Tanner 'no' wouldn't get him any kind of reaction Chris wanted to see, not right now. And home didn't mean the ranch. It meant Vin's apartment in Purgatorio, without a tree or mountain except those of steel, and certainly not quiet, even on a Sunday. "Call me later?" Chris asked and Vin nodded and shifted his stance, ready to finish his report and get the hell out of here. He hesitated though and looked down, knocking his heel against the floor a couple of times like a nervous horse.

"I missed, Chris. I was aiming for Barrett," he said quietly. "It's in my report," he added and then walked away and Chris looked down at his own feet, the floor, anywhere but at the stiff set of Vin's shoulders.

Someone other than Vin might have made it seem like he'd missed the first shot to Hollinger because of angle, movement, any of a dozen things that could make such a tight shot go too low and catch the lunatic in the throat. The second shot would have dropped Hollinger once Barrett was clear but the first -- enough time for Hollinger to maybe, maybe, hit the remote. A risk, no matter how they'd looked at it. But the order had been recorded so it wasn't like no one would ever know that Chris gave the order and that Vin had accepted it and then missed.

And the priest had *thanked* Vin for it.

For one long moment Chris thought he might well hurl the contents of his stomach as well but he swallowed the bile back and watched Vin pick out the words to make a triumph into a failure.

Sunday, 4:38 p.m., Apartment 301, Purgatorio.

It was all over the noon news and Vin missed it the first time around and would have missed it entirely had he not inadvertently dropped an entire load of clean laundry, including his tennis shoes, onto the remote where it lay on the sofa. Then he'd had to paw through the pile of clothes to find it so he could turn the damn television off only to find himself caught by a glimpse of Chris' face as he and Ezra had shoved their way through the crowd. He recognized himself in between them and finally JD's face, out of focus, pushing the camera down. Vin stared, not really listening to the reporter and idly glad that Ezra had his sunglasses on, his hat pulled down, and his jacket collar up. Vin wouldn't have recognized him if he hadn't already known who he was.

His name wasn't mentioned, he hoped, wondering if McCall or Chris had enough influence to make sure it wasn't and deciding Assistant Director Travis would if nothing else. There was more, including an interview with Father Barrett, who also didn't say his name but Vin was barely aware of it as he stared at the man.

If he closed his eyes, he knew he'd see the man's face again, only compressed into the small confines of his sight.

Barrett was the same height as Hollinger but the priest's knees had buckled and he had slumped, forced to the less than erect position by Hollinger's arm around his throat. Vin had been higher than both and he'd been watching the pace and turn routine for the better part of thirty minutes, knowing Hollinger would jerk and Barrett would push to stay on his feet as they made the pivot. A five second window was all Vin had at the finish of the turn was when the two men's heads were most likely to be aligned.

He tried to find a way to only injure Barrett, but there wasn't time to shoot low and come back and then hope Hollinger wouldn't hit the trigger in the three second return it would take to realign the shot. He'd run them all, with Chris, with the spotter from Team 3: hand shot was no good because Hollinger was talking with his hand almost as much with his mouth. Back shot was dismissed because the angle was wrong with the framing of the clerestory and the hostages blocking anything but a guess and a prayer and no one handling a gun should leave their shot to either.

Vin kept praying Barrett would pass out instead of staying on his feet or that the two women at the end of the choir line who looked like they might faint, just would.

He'd known Chris would give the order probably before Chris did, putting it off for all the right reasons and a couple that were probably wrong in somebody's book.

He didn't want Chris Larabee's job, ever.

It made his own reactions even more difficult to deal with. Normally, after an op, Chris was exactly who Vin wanted. Needed even, away from the job, away from everything. Especially after a bad op, the thing he wanted most was to feel Chris against him, taste him, and hear him pant out his anger and frustration and his energy with groans and moans of passion that drowned out Vin's own fears and guilt and anger as Chris fucked him through the mattress.

But this hadn't been an op gone wrong. If anything, it had gone righter than Vin had expected. Father Barrett was alive. Hollinger was dead and the 22nd block of Maywell was intact. He was glad he'd missed, glad for whatever random intervention of luck and the divine had managed to let him spare the life of a priest who had only answered to his calling. He was glad it was Chris' call to make, that no matter who pulled the trigger, neither of them would have to bear that burden alone.

Even acknowledging that though, there was a mix of other things to deal with, including anger at Chris for calling the shot, at himself for being willing to make it -- for making it. Disgust at himself for knowing he was the kind of man who could do such a thing, and still knowing, with every fiber of his being that there always *had* to be someone who could. Anger again, at Chris, who'd been inside the damn church with the rest of the Team and knowing that if he missed...if he'd missed more than he had, they would all be dead: Chris, his friends, the hostages. Only if he was really lucky, he might have gone with them rather than face the idea, the very real possibility of surviving all of them.

His stomach churned at the thought.

It might have been easier to just let himself get fucked through the mattress because he damn well felt like he'd been fucked every other way today. Swearing softly, he turned the TV off and started folding clothes.

It was well after seven and dark outside when his cell rang and Vin stared at it before answering. He had come to no grand conclusions but he was better able to balance it within himself, better able to deal with the remnants of his self-esteem and ego without eyes watching him, or the voices of his friends faltering because they didn't know what to say. And Vin didn't know what he wanted them to say so better nothing got said at all.

A glance at the number made him take a breath. He wasn't surprised and he had said he would call Chris. He would have, too...eventually.

"Yeah," he said.

"How are you doing?" Chris asked and he really wanted to know.

"Better. Bitter...got some perspective. We were on the news."

"Saw that. Travis is pulling out the big muzzles. You want some company?"

Suddenly Vin did but it was late and dark and while he knew Chris would make the drive, or he could, it was ridiculous to ask. "I'm okay. How are you?"

Chris was quiet for a moment. "Really glad you missed," he said and Vin almost smiled.

"Yeah, me too," he said. "I'm...don't drive back, Chris. I'll see you tomorrow."

There was a low chuckle on the line. "I'm downstairs, Vin," Chris said softly and Vin relaxed a little, smiling too.

"Freezing your butt off?"

"Will if I step outside this truck. Should I step outside this truck?"

Vin was glad he'd done laundry. At least he had clean sheets. "I can probably get you warmed up real quick."

"I'm going to hold you to that, Tanner." Chris clicked off and Vin shook his head, getting up to unlock the door. It took Chris a few minutes to climb the four flights and Vin waited in the open door even though the hallway was chilly and the heat of his own apartment was escaping.

He warmed up enough at the sight of Chris though, taking a moment just to appreciate the pure physical beauty of the man because Vin had had enough of deep thoughts for a little while. And Chris was a beauty: handsome, striking, gorgeous -- Vin figured there were a few adjectives he hadn't yet managed to place regarding his lover. His boss.

The two things got tangled up sometimes and Vin was unable to entirely separate them save he did everything he could to make sure outwardly, they were separate. They could be here and now because it was his lover he wanted, who he saw in the wide set green eyes, the firm set of Chris' generous mouth. He was tall and lean, broad shoulders occupying more of Vin's narrow stairwell than they should, muscular thighs tensed as he mounted the steps in quick economical movements. Everything about Chris Larabee from the way he looked to how he moved had Vin's full attention and he was awfully glad he'd put on sweat pants instead of jeans or he might not be able to think at all.

Chris looked tired, as well he should, and there were lines of strain around his mouth and eyes, but they eased at seeing Vin waiting for him. The lines at his mouth curved into a smile, green eyes widening a little further as though he'd expected to see Vin still down or depressed or just out of sorts.

Vin was all of those things but the sorting part got easier as he stepped back to let Chris inside. He could smell the fresh snow melting on his leather jacket and in Chris' hair and the muskier scent as he shrugged out of his jacket and gloves while Vin re-secured the door and then leaned against it, knowing Chris would prowl a little.

"Got coffee ready," Vin said as Chris laid his jacket on the ladder-back chair by the door where Vin's own coat hung on one rail and his mail in the seat.

"If that's your idea of warming up, I'm going home," Chris said but while his words indicated he felt sure enough to tease, the eyes searching Vin's face and his stance said something else.

"Got whiskey too," Vin offered, smiling at Chris and saw the green eyes darken a little. His own teasing tone reassured Chris as the words alone might not have.

"May as well have both," Chris said and Vin nodded, pushing off the door but he went for Chris rather than the open kitchen.

The button down shirt hadn't gained anything but wrinkles from being forced under a black ATF sweat shirt and a bullet proof vest during the op. He smelled of sweat and soap, the glossy blonde hair clean, and his skin, but the clothes weren't. "Might as well have took a shower in your clothes, Chris. Then they'd be clean too."

"Thought I had spares," Chris said, not reaching to touch him and Vin didn't touch Chris either, not just yet, just standing close enough to see the small lines at the corners of Chris' mouth start to deepen when Chris frowned.

"Got spares here," Vin said and then did reach out to touch. He caught the top button of Chris' shirt, twisting it in the buttonhole when Chris leaned in. Vin waited for him, watching Chris' eyes, not surprised to see Chris watching him. He felt the soft brush of lips before he moved in closer, opening his mouth to Chris' and, with a flick of his tongue and the press of his mouth, encouraged Chris to do the same. He took a shallow breath and breathed in the air Chris let out and felt the warmth of that breath on his lips, let it tingle across his tongue before going for the source. Easy and slow: Chris' tongue teased his, then his mouth said yes to the invitation. Lips warmed and sought and Vin drank it all in, tasting, letting his senses be fed and his throat eased as he sucked softly, trying to draw Chris further into himself. There was whiskey there already, but just a hint, and beer: Buck, no doubt, springing for the boilermakers so the team could put their nerves on the simmer finally.

His tongue sought out every nuance of taste, until Chris finally reached up and around and pressed them together. He sought out the warmth of skin under Vin's T-shirt and tangled his fingers in Vin's hair. Vin let him pull and press and sucked on his lover's tongue softly, then his lower lip, leaving it wet. His own mouth felt swollen and tender, and he shuddered when Chris bit down on his lip gently, feeling the flare of warmth up his spine where Chris' fingers touched and traced his back.

The button under his fingers finally gave way and Vin pulled back and pushed his hand inside. Chris' skin was cool but warmed up nicely when Vin's thumb rubbed over a nipple. Chris' eyes almost closed and Vin moved his mouth down along the rough, hard edge of Chris ' jaw to his ear and felt teeth and tongue bite gently at his throat, then with a little more force when Vin bit as well then blew cool air over the mark.

Chris shivered. "Thought we were warming up?" Chris said on a growl and Vin nodded and turned his attention back to the shirt and unbuttoned it swiftly before pushing it off Chris' chest and letting his fingers linger.

They may as well have been dancing, moving slowly, through the room, urgency carefully banked for reassurance or just plain competition, seeing who could hold out, who would admit to wanting first. Chris stopped at the end of the sofa to pull his boots off, doing it blind while Vin kissed him again. He searched Chris' mouth and then his throat for the familiar tastes and scents of Chris' skin, knowing they would both be strongest lower and he tugged at Chris' belt the same time the boots hit the floor.

The more clothing they shed, the faster the race got, barriers knocked down and shoved aside, taking a single breath together to get through the bedroom door and then to the bed. Vin's shirt was surrendered in the fumble for the light switch, Chris' jeans joining the clean clothes on the floor where they got knocked off the end of the bed to make room for them.

The evening stubble on Chris' chin left a warm, pleasant burn on Vin's belly as his lover nursed the skin there and pulled down the sweat pants, leaving Vin bare and hard and Chris still had on his shirt and boxers and socks. Not that he cared at all as warm lips closed over him and a warmer hand folded around him, then he did care when Chris lifted his head watching him as he stroked Vin's cock. Vin caught his wrist and sat up and pulled the hand back. He let his eyes rove before he nudged Chris' hardness with the knee Chris straddled. "Take 'em off. Might be wet from your shower. Wouldn't want you to take a chill," Vin said. He wanted to see Chris, all of him, and Chris' eyes got darker still as he peeled the rest of his shirt off slowly, then sat to the side to pull off his socks and finally easing the tented boxers off his hips.

Well, he couldn't be too cold, Vin thought, satisfied. He pulled Chris down and stretched out beneath him. He smiled against Chris' mouth when his lover hissed, their bodies rubbing together, the warmth spreading, being shared. Chris hand was there again, pumping Vin to a near painful hardness, fully intent on bringing him off right then and there, his own dick a hard, insistent visitor to the space between Vin's legs. That was nearly where Vin wanted him but not quite.

Vin squirmed and shoved Chris on his back, winning the race to the bedside table that could have turned into a wrestling match except it looked and felt more like foreplay when a strong hand closed around his ankle and pulled him back. He groaned at the friction along his cock, then again when that same hand moved up to the top of his calf as he was struggling to get to his knees.

"Fuck, Vin. Damn it," Chris started when Vin struggled and twisted and snatched at the pillows at the top of the bed at the same time he slapped the bottle and foil pouch into the palm of Chris' hand.

"I'd sure as hell like to," Vin shot back, finally getting to his knees, the pillows at hand and then twisted to look at Chris. He almost lost it right there. Chris had obviously been paying attention to other things the way he looked at condoms and oil and then at Vin's ass -- like he'd been handed the alchemist's formula for making gold out of dust bunnies. The look he gave Vin burned through about six layers of skin on his back and went right to his groin. So Vin did what needed to be done and sat back on his heels for a moment, turned and shoved his tongue down Chris' throat in the hopes of giving his lover's dick a little jumpstart.

Worked too. Usually did and Vin had to laugh out loud at just how quickly Chris Larabee could move when properly motivated. Most of the time he was as deliberate and unhurried as a big cat, which could be unnerving since it always looked like he was stalking prey. Vin helped, or tried to, slicking his hand over the latex until Chris caught his wrist with a warning growl and a hand pressed between Vin's shoulder blades. That hand slid up to the back of his neck, quickly followed by Chris' lips as he used his weight and Vin's willingness to stretch Vin out on his belly again.

Face to face was a more frequent preference but just by stretching out Vin let Chris know what he wanted, as if it hadn't been obvious before. Hard and deep, speed was optional, but Vin though it wouldn't matter anyway -- he was likely to spill the goodies the minute Chris opened him, be it with cock or fingers. Mostly he wanted to feel Chris, inside and out, burrow down and be covered, overtaken and hidden. He wanted Chris' strength as well as his passion, his lust as well as his love.

He wanted to be mentally and physically incapacitated for, like, a month. Faint hope but it crossed his mind. Even on his best days, Larabee might manage an hour and Vin would take it since, despite threats to the contrary, Chris was unlikely to kill him outright. Not on purpose.

He would have liked it a little rougher too, but they hadn't quite worked up to that in Chris' repertoire of being able to let go or lose that much control. Accidentally, only once, and it hadn't been the worst or the roughest Vin had experienced but Chris had been shaken. He still struggled with the concept that part of the reason Vin liked men -- and maybe why Chris wanted Vin -- had as much to do with being met strength to strength as anything. There was a lot of emotion and understanding and other needs and desires wrapped around the two of them and bringing them together, but the attraction on Vin's side had been more automatic, instinctive. Chris hadn't so much resisted as had to reorder his thinking...regauge his reactions and Vin had watched the whole process with a mix of wonder and dread, not sure how his relationship with Chris would survive if he'd been wrong in admitting his desire.

He should have known better, known Chris better than to think Larabee could be forced to go anywhere he didn't want to, or do anything without thinking it through and working the angles and planning for a range of outcomes. He hadn't gotten the position he held because he ignored the details, either on the job or off.

Chris was thorough and Vin cherished that among his lover's other good points. Enough to suck a breath in and manage to not quite scream with pleasure when well slicked fingers probed and stroked and finally pushed inside him; Chris definitely warmed up now. His skin was flushed and damp where it slid against Vin's back. His knee nudged Vin's legs apart, and his fingers curled through Vin's as he was fucked and prepared gently by hands that had long since learned where to go and what buttons to push. Vin bucked, his body deciding that stalwart control was for the birds. He pushed upward, getting his knees under him and Chris moved with him, like he'd been waiting for just this and Vin was pretty sure whatever words were spilling out of his mouth were incoherent. He wasn't even sure they were English as Chris' fingers were replaced by the blunt, thick end of his cock.

He rocked back, Chris crying out halfway between a moan and a curse, Vin ready for the deep part of hard, hips flexing as Chris gripped his thigh, setting the angle and panting as Vin tightened around him, pushing for resistance and digging his hands into the blankets for leverage. Christ, he couldn't breathe and that worked for him: Chris' body filled him with pressure, with heat. What thoughts Vin could lay claim to fled in a nose dive of sensation, crashing to the earth as pleasure swept through him, over him, and back again when Chris pulled back and pushed in. A few slow tests of control and position before Chris did let go in a way, using both hands to pull Vin to him as he thrust, jerked and then leaned in, weight on Vin's back as he changed the angle and pressed Vin to the bed. He gripped shoulder and hip and Vin didn't have to do anything but feel...and occasionally give voice to his less than respectful prayers.

Somehow he didn't think "Fuck me!" was on the short list of approved requests to the almighty.

Approved or not, he got what he asked for, body feeling almost bruised and yet he felt more alive and aware of everything than he had felt all day, since his entire world had narrowed briefly to a few inches that could be seen through a scope.

Chris jerked him back until Vin was almost sitting. His lover's hand wrapped around his cock and his thighs splayed across Chris' as the hardness inside him settled deeper. When Vin came it was like being shot, save there was no pain. Chris clutched at him, his chest heaving and his breath harsh and hot against Vin's neck. "So tight," Chris said, more snarl than endearment and Vin ground his hips down then pushed against Chris' hands.

"Spandex supplements," Vin said and heard Chris laugh and choke and groan. He cursed Vin but his laughter only made it better and Vin grinned wickedly as he rode the crest of sensation. He covered Chris' hand with his own and reached back to dig his fingers into Chris' hair. Then was unable to do anything but ride the rush out as he clutched his own cock and Chris' hand slid between his leg to press up, right near where their bodies were joined. The pressure sent a near painful jolt of something through him, making every muscle tense and Chris grunted and swore as Vin tightened around him. Vin almost knocked them both over, a guttural groan escaping him then he was bent over, Chris bucking against his ass and coming before Vin could catch his breath.

His own body thrummed and trembled, Vin not even noticing the heavy weight along his back, only turned his head to gasp for breath and heard Chris do the same for a few moments before he lifted himself and separated them. Vin closed his eyes as Chris moved, heard the wet sound of the condom hitting the trash and then he was warm again, both of them pushing and twisting to get the pillows moved and to lie back down, legs and arms tangled. Chris' tongue licked slowly across Vin's belly, erasing the traces of his orgasm and tickling Vin a little but he only squirmed and returned to the slow steady stroke of his hand along Chris' back and shoulders.

Vin dozed and Chris fell asleep like that, Vin surfacing from time to time as the evening wore on but never really waking until he came to realize he was being watched. Chris grinned at being caught at it and Vin only stretched then rolled up to sitting. "Food?" he offered and Chris nodded.

Vin caught up his sweats and pulled them on, rummaging through the clothes on the floor and tossing the clean sheets to the end of the bed.

"That a hint?" Chris asked.

"I'm cooking," Vin said and Chris fell back on the bed.

"Point."

Vin left him although the temptation to just tumble back into bed was strong. His stomach grumbled and he moved, suddenly aware that he was hungry for something other than Chris. Not surprising now that he thought about it. He hadn't eaten all day except for the Gatorade JD had given him and some crackers when he got home to settle his stomach. He rarely ate before an op and this one had come up almost before he had his eyes open.

He had food enough. He was a simple cook, nothing fancy, although he avoided prepared meals when possible. Slices of chicken and peppers and onions and some jalapeños and lime, in the skillet, while he let the tortillas warm and soften on the cover of the pan. Wedges of lettuce and tomato and by the time Chris emerged wearing his jeans only, Vin was putting plates on the counter and had pulled a couple of beers from the refrigerator. Chris got coffee first, bumping against Vin in the small open galley kitchen, then hoisted himself up on the counter to get out of the way and watch Vin deftly spread ingredients and wrap them.

Vin watched Chris out of the corner of his eye, watching the set of his mouth after he sipped the coffee which had to be pretty strong after sitting for an hour or more. Chris' mouth was tight, his eyes flicking over the walls of Vin's apartment, lingering on the bookcase, the prints on the wall.

"When's the op review?" Vin asked because Chris was waiting. Back to business and his lover didn't like the shift anymore than Vin did, but it wasn't like they could avoid it forever.

"Eight. Got you in first," he said and Vin nodded, grateful for that. "McCall said you did good."

Vin snorted and set the plate down, next to Chris' hip. "Yeah, well, Lawrence McCall had his ass outside the barrier, didn't he?"

"Vin...he's not an idiot and he doesn't pass out praise easily. You know that."

Vin took a breath and fingered his own wrap before taking a bite and chewing it. "Yeah. I know. I'm being an asshole. It just...you know, I think there's something wrong with me. I should be gladder I didn't kill Barrett."

Chris said nothing, eating his own food but watching Vin work it out all over again.

Vin was glad he hadn't killed Barrett and he wasn't anything more than annoyed that he'd missed to begin with. He was good but he wasn't perfect. He should have been able to keep the alignment, even with the two of them looking up, the bells breaking the pattern.

"You're gonna make yourself crazy," Chris warned and Vin nodded.

"Already past that point." He took a deep breath and let it out, picked up his beer and took a healthy swallow. "I just wonder sometimes, what makes us...you know. How we do this. Why I mean, not the why we work enforcement. Just why we are men who can."

"Sounds like a Josiah question," Chris said and swung his legs around to look at Vin. "I don't know...and when I think about doing something else..." Chris shook his head. "Whole time I was on the police force, I kept thinking there had to be more I could do. You know, get to the source instead of the end result."

It made sense to Vin, but then he hadn't followed the progression of Chris' career. Most days he recognized that he'd more or less fallen into his profession. He'd always been good with guns. That skill, talent, whatever, had served him well in the rangers, done him less good bounty hunting and gotten him in more trouble than not with the US Marshals. But with the ATF...it made a difference. Vin knew it. Every time his Team walked out of a bust under their own power, he knew it.

"They'd all be dead, Vin. Us too," Chris said after a moment.

Vin nodded. "I know. I do, Chris, I just..." he shook his head, shrugging his shoulders. He couldn't articulate why he was still hanging onto this. Ends justifying the means, he supposed, and it just felt wrong. Or maybe it was because Barrett was alive and knew how close he'd come to meeting God.

Chris' hands were warm on his shoulders, that cat-like grace getting him behind Vin in one smooth move. His shoulders were tight and Chris worked them, doing nothing more than try to ease the tension there for long minutes until he slid his arms around Vin's waist. "You've got down time coming, Vin. Why don't you take it? Stay on call if you like but give yourself a few days after the review."

Vin smiled and leaned back. "Can't take a week off every time I have to shoot somebody, Chris. Nobody has that much time coming...well, you, maybe."

"Smart ass," Chris said and pushed him a little before stepping away to pick up his plate and find someplace more comfortable to sit than Vin's counter to eat his dinner. Vin followed him, settling on the couch. He tossed Chris the remote and let him do the surfing.

"You staying over?" Vin asked, watching Chris home in on ESPN and dropped his head back on the couch.

"I shouldn't."

Vin took a bite of his fajita instead of letting Chris see him grin. They caught half of a replay game before Chris switched channels and Vin found himself dozing off, head in Chris' lap until he was nearly dumped on the floor with Chris sitting up straight with a snarled "Fuck!"

Still sleepy, Vin looked, following Chris' angry gaze and saw yet another replay of the film from earlier, and heard it: his name in the voice over. He sat up, barely listening as the news anchor gave a rundown of events.

When the broadcast switched over to other news, Vin continued to stare, only barely watching Chris hunt down his cell phone from his jacket. He cut into Travis almost before the man had time to answer the phone. Vin turned off the TV set and picked up their plates and bottles, cleaning up with hardly a thought to what he was doing or why.

"They'll have it on fucking CNN in no time!" Chris snarled. "No names and it's bad enough they got faces," Chris said, face and chest flushed and Vin thought idly that Chris was going to stroke himself into an early grave. "Jesus...no, he's unlisted but tell me no one at Channel 4 or the AP can't get a phone number or an address out of the fucking phone company!" He shut up for just a moment but whatever Travis said didn't mollify him. "I want the footage pulled and I want whoever the asshole was that pushed this to be shot. They've compromised one of my people, my team and your fucking operation."

Vin stopped listening. There was nothing much he could do about it if Chris and Travis couldn't get a lid on it quickly, but he automatically checked the front window, looking out, half expecting to see a Channel 4 van on the street. There was nothing. He settled back on the couch, Chris winding down a little, but still furious.

Vin wasn't even sure what it could all mean, what it would mean. Visions of footage from one of the reality based cop shows came back and he wondered how those guys did their jobs. Did it make a difference? Did they even use real names? He'd never thought so. But this was...the news. ATF Sniper Kills Church Arsonist. Special Agent Vin Tanner of the Denver Based ATF Special Operations Group...

It was bad enough he wondered what kind of man could do what he did without the rest of the country wondering the same thing. He had to wonder if anyone would really care. If any of the half dozen cases they had open had people who watched the Channel 4 news. He supposed that it was a good thing he didn't do undercover work very often and then had to wonder if he ever would again. Chris was wary enough of it where Vin was concerned. Vin hadn't come out of the last one so well.

Maybe he should make Chris go home. It was late and a long drive but the last thing they needed was for any more of their life to be put on public display, shove it in the bureau's face yet again when they were willing to let it lie by the narrowest of departmental ethics margins. And that was a fragile pardon at best. A change in administration and they might both be looking at reductions, suspensions, transfers...if not new jobs. Chris wasn't talking to Travis any longer. He'd called someone else and Vin thought that icy cold voice of his really worked better in person, with that patented glare accompanying it.

His own phone rang and he picked it up and almost answered it without checking the number, but he remembered and clicked it over. "Hi, Ezra."

"Mr. Tanner," there was a pause and then a kind of dry chuckle. "Given the tone of Mr. Larabee's voice, I take it you both saw the news."

"Yeah. Got Chris a mite upset," Vin said and he got to his feet, hovering in the doorway between the living room and bedroom so he could hear better.

"I tried him at the ranch," Ezra said and was silent for another minute. "It would seem our overeager newshounds have developed a taste for notoriety. Should I anticipate a public lynching?"

"Something like that," Vin said, smiling a little, watching Chris. "It going to cause problems for you?"

"I think not, but I have no doubt caution will be playing a larger role in my endeavors for a few weeks at least. Rather depends on how quickly this footage can be axed. Thank god they didn't use my name...I'd have to move. However, the west coast is starting to look fairly appealing at the moment."

"Naw, Ezra." Vin leaned against the doorway. "You'd have to get a tan and everything. And you keep telling me California wines suck."

There was another dry chuckle. "I may acquire a taste for them. You seem exceptionally calm about this, Vin."

"Ain't much I can do that Chris can't get done better." Chris had finished his second call and was watching Vin who mouthed Ezra's name and Chris nodded, collapsing his phone.

"Well, I did just want to provide an appropriate head's up," Ezra said. "If there's anything I can do to assist Mr. Larabee in kicking some journalistic ass, please let him know I'm available."

"I'll tell him, Ez. Thanks," Vin hung up and gave Chris a smile. "Ezra wants to help you kick ass."

Chris snorted, some calmer, but by the set of his jaw and the glint in his eyes he was still pissed and Vin supposed it was good one of them was. "Ezra doesn't volunteer for much. Must be annoyed." He sighed and ran a hand through his blond hair, easing the tension that had crept back into his shoulders and lower back. "Travis was already on it...pulling the news director up by his short hairs."

"Who else did you call?"

"Station manager. Idiots."

"Let it go, Chris," Vin said. He set his phone back in the charger and pulled another beer from the fridge. Chris shook his head when Vin offered him one and headed for the cabinet where Vin kept his whiskey instead. "It's already out there. And it's not like your name has never hit the papers."

"There's a difference between having my picture in the paper with thirty other guys and a two paragraph spread on the Governor's task force on violent crimes and having your face and name plastered on the nightly news, complete with commentary." Half a tumbler of whiskey went down. Vin watched Chris swallow his anger with the liquor. "I want somebody's balls."

Vin took a swig of his beer and smirked at Chris. "Well, you can have mine...but you have to give them back," he offered and Chris looked at him, then let a small smile escape.

"It's not a good thing, Vin."

"I know. But...they can pull it or..." he shrugged. "Maybe they'll leave it at that," he said but couldn't help but glance at the window again. "It would have been a different story if I hadn't missed," he said after a moment.

"Vin, you have got to let that go," Chris said. He tried for patient but Vin could see the irritation rising and looked away when the heat rose in his own cheeks.

"Yeah. Good advice. I'm going to bed," he said and finished his beer and checked the locks on the door.

Vin half wished Chris would say something but he didn't, only poured another glass of whiskey and pointedly avoided looking at Vin.

Truth was, Chris was right, and Vin couldn't understand why he couldn't let it go. All he could see was Father Barrett's face, both while he was a hostage and afterward. He'd been as close to death from Vin as he had been from Hollinger.

And that made Vin different than Hollinger, how?

The bed was remade, linens and blankets as tightly tucked as the second day of boot camp and Vin pulled them back, noticing Chris had put his clothes away and taken out his own "spares", ready for the next day. He turned the light off and pulled the blankets up tightly. There was an uneven square of light on the wall from the street light outside, striated and blurred by the railing of the fire escape on the side of the building and the frost gathering in the corners of the glass of the window. Vin had counted the bars a hundred times. He did it again, over and over.

When Chris came in a bit later, he remained still and unmoving, even when Chris rolled to his side and Vin knew the other man was studying his back. After a few minutes Chris shifted and rolled over, putting his back to Vin. "Vin," Chris said softly a little while later, both of them still awake and unmoving. "You did save Barrett's life. Whether you meant to or not. Remember that too."

Vin said nothing and heard Chris sigh, felt the change in weight as Chris relaxed and finally fell asleep after some restless shifting. Only then did he roll over, carefully, barely disturbing the bed at all to look at Chris, typically on his back.

He hadn't forgotten it. But being considered a hero for it...Vin closed his eyes and swallowed, tasting bitterness.

He wondered if he'd feel this guilty if he hadn't missed.

**Sunday, 11:17 p.m., Garden Towers Suites, Denver.**

He had no idea what had been on the tape, and he didn't care, rewinding it again to stop it and study the face on the screen. He'd hit the record button on instinct. Probably one of Michelle's soaps or Oprah or God knew what else.

He knew that face, recognized it instantly. He knew the name too and it shouldn't have made a difference. It wasn't like he had new information. No, nothing new about Vin Tanner's face or his name or even his job. And beside him...despite glasses and hat and jacket...he recognized the other agent as well. No doubt at all.

He recognized all of them. Loose ends that he hadn't actually been able to tie up. It wasn't like he could stake out the Federal building on the off chance of catching them all off guard. However -- he smiled and rewound the tape again -- opportunities came to those who waited. A little notoriety...a few assets surrendered in the name of a good cause and perhaps a boost to his reputation. Playing with the big boys took a certain amount of bravado and panache, and his status had suffered somewhat. He'd been forced to lay low, stay out of sight. He was only back now to tie up some other loose ends, and Tanner, well if he planned this right, he could be back in the country permanently if his patience paid off. No witness...no crime.

"Tony, are you coming to bed?" Michelle called him, sounding sleepy and a little drunk. Maybe playful and he was in the mood to play a bit.

"Yeah, honey. Keep your skirt on," he called out and then grinned. "Better yet. Take it off. I'm in a good mood."

He aimed the remote at the TV and clicked it, complete with the softly spoken "bang". "Cost me some money and a good set up, Mr. Tanner, Mr. Standish. Time to pay up."

His former employer had always stressed the need to make sure all debts were paid. He'd been a good mentor and left Anthony Hartman with a few doors open, but now, it was time to close a few. Permanently.

##  ~Chapter Two~

** Monday, 5:20 a.m., Apartment 301, Purgatorio**

There were no reporters waiting for them the next morning, either at Vin's apartment or at the Federal Building, and Chris could only hope that it meant that Travis and the Bureau had managed to make it clear that they wouldn't be as forgiving the second time. He actually didn't think it would be over that easily, but he held onto a little hope.

He woke to find Vin still asleep, facing him. Unusual enough for him to wake before Vin did and even more so with distance between them. Vin woke up only a couple of minutes later, blinked and then got out of bed without a word to grab a shower.

Which pissed Chris off and it had gone steadily down hill from there. For a place as noisy as Purgatorio was no matter the day or night, the silence in the apartment was frigid and lethal. Still Vin left him hot water and had coffee and toast made by the time Chris emerged, enough food to get them moving and dressed. Vin traded in jeans for slacks and a shirt that wasn't an advertisement for the hottest new band or new club in Denver. Not quite Chris' suit and tie but as close as Tanner was likely to get without orders.

He waited while Vin locked up, walked down the stairs with him, and finally gave up hoping Vin would be the first one to break the silence when they hit the sidewalk, both of them wary. "I'll see you there," Chris said and Vin had only nodded, walking away quickly, head down as he pulled the keys for his jeep out of his pocket.

They hit the parking garage at the same time, the ridiculousness of it just adding to the low boil of Chris' mood. A mood he needed to get a handle on before the reviews, before the shit really started to hit the fan, but it was hard not to blame Vin. He understood that the Hollinger thing had left Vin tied in knots, but he hadn't killed the priest and he wasn't having any better luck at figuring out why Vin was still wired so tight than Vin was.

Which just made him pissed at himself.

It eased a bit though, when Vin got out of his jeep and waited, shivering in the coldness of the garage. Okay, so they weren't talking but Vin wasn't completely shut off and Chris took a deep breath and got out, hurrying over so they could catch the elevator and get Vin and himself out of the cold air and into the frying pan.

He wasn't surprised to see Josiah there already, listening intently to the compilation of distance gain tapes of Hollinger's rantings and taking notes on a legal pad already filled with more of the same. If he could put Sanchez on the Midnight to eight shift they'd probably all be happier for it but as it was, Josiah was likely to come in early and duck out mid afternoon.

"Starting early," Chris commented glad there was coffee made. Josiah pulled the earphones off and nodded.

"Have to have them back for the transcriptionists by eight. Man could have been a fundamentalist preacher," Josiah said, eyes cutting to Vin to watch the younger man shed coat and sweater and extra shirt. His glance only lingered a moment before returning to Chris. "Your phone's been ringing for the last thirty minutes," he added. "Vin's as well." He pulled the headphones back on and Chris stared at his darkened office, seeing the blinking light. It was just barely past six a.m.

Chris got coffee and dropped a second cup off at Vin's desk and got half a smile, which further eased both their tension, but Vin was already clearing messages, pulling up email.

It was the last moment of ease Chris would get for awhile. He had over fifty messages and most of them from local news agencies, newspapers, his voice mail clogged and rendered almost ineffectual for official business and it was nearly seven before he actually got through them all. And they didn't stop, more messages coming in as he cleared the old. Looking up he saw Vin looking pole axed and pissed off and Chris had little doubt as to why. He finally called the switchboard and informed them that they could direct any further calls from reporters or anyone who sounded like a reporter to the press office.

"I'm blocking the calls," he said to let Vin know there was relief in sight and Vin nodded, looking at the scrawling notes he'd taken.

"Guess you didn't get it pulled fast enough," he said and it sounded almost like an accusation. "Look, boss, my mother called three times," Vin added. "And my father called twice." It wasn't even pain in his voice, just disgust and Chris didn't know what to say to him -- or if Vin would accept anything he might say at all. "Nothing like messages from beyond the grave to start your day."

"I'll finish clearing them if you want," Chris offered at last. Vin wouldn't react well to anyone digging into his personal life but he was already off his stride.

Vin shrugged with an awful tension in his shoulders that made Chris ache for him. "Naw. God, who knows, Chris, maybe I can get on Oprah!" he snarled and Chris took a step back, Josiah looking up sharply at the uncharacteristic display of temper from Vin.

Chris clenched his jaw and recovered the ground he'd lost physically and emotionally. "It will pass. We ignore it. And you need to get a grip. You've got a review in forty minutes."

"Maybe I should save them the trouble," Vin said and Chris met his stormy gaze wondering how badly he'd gauged Vin's mood or how much this was affecting him. It was hard to tell with Vin sometimes -- the adage of still waters running deep was never so apt as when applied to Vin Tanner.

"Don't say things you'll regret, Vin," Josiah said easily and it was enough to break Vin's attention from Chris to the older agent. "This isn't anything more than rubbernecking on a highway. It will pass. It wasn't on the news this morning."

Maybe it would be better if Vin just lost his temper completely, Chris thought, watching the struggle and half wanting to ease it but part of him really didn't understand what was going on in Tanner's head. And neither did Vin, if his comments the night before still held weight. But Vin wasn't Chris and he didn't have the practice of letting loose of his anger that easily.

It was painful to watch, even harder when Vin only nodded, eyes down and resolutely picked up his phone again to finish clearing the messages. Chris gave him some space, and caught Josiah watching Vin with some confusion on his weathered face. Going to his office, Chris took a couple of deep breaths and picked up the phone to call Travis.

Ten minutes later he was a little reassured but still anxious. Yes, the footage had been pulled, no Travis wasn't expecting anything out of the ordinary from the review, which meant a standard three days suspension with pay for Vin while the review board sorted out the particulars. By the time he finished he had six new messages and Vin once more looked ready to put his fist, if not his phone, through the wall.

"Vin," Chris said, deliberately calculating his tone to indicate business and not a further attempt to placate his agent's nerves. "Leave them. I'm going to get someone else to handle our calls, screen them or we aren't going to get any work done. Go over your own report so you'll be ready for the review," he said and saw defiance in the blue eyes but there was relief there too.

Vin finally nodded and pulled his jacket off the back of his chair to cover the phone so he wouldn't be distracted by the flashing light. When Chris checked a few minutes later, Vin looked calmer, scrolling through his own report and sipping coffee. Josiah caught Chris' eyes as he packed up the tapes. "Care to join me for a stroll to evidence, Vin?" he asked and Vin looked up.

"Yeah. Walk will do me good," Vin said and Chris took another deep breath and went back to his desk. He was startled when Vin appeared at his door moments later.

"I'm...sorry," Vin said quietly.

Chris studied him, knowing the apology was for his outburst and for all the hours that had preceded it. "It's okay. Vin, they are going to put you on suspension for three days. When you get done...take the time."

Vin considered and nodded. "I'll stop by my place and pick up...stuff," he said, looking down as if he was almost afraid Chris would tell him to stay in town.

As if.

"Might want to get groceries too. I'm likely to be late," Chris said softly and Vin nodded, met his eyes briefly and then tapped the doorframe twice with the flat of his hand.

"I'll see you in a bit," he said and Chris nodded, watching him head for the elevators with Josiah. Only after the metal doors had closed did Chris drop his head into his hands. He'd deliberately left his own slot in the review until later in the day, knowing the questions would get harder and more pointed based on the previously presented questioning.

Which meant he got to worry about it all day. Not that he really expected to get more than a seriously thorough cross-examination over his order, maybe a couple of days with one of the Bureau shrinks.

In truth though, he was far less worried about the review than he was about the news leak and Vin's state of mind. Having Tanner's name out there was a great way to drag out a whole lot of vindictive low-lifes with grudges against the ATF, or even assholes who were looking for a way to make a name for themselves. Not that ATF agents were spooks or even pretended to operate like nameless or faceless individuals. But there was a huge difference between being a federal employee who was known at the bars the law enforcement personnel hung out at and suddenly having your name and face and your position as a marksman broadcast into a half a million homes.

He looked over the list of messages he'd already cleared, noting at least two scandal sheets and four tabloids looking for something on Vin. There were legitimate journalists too -- some Chris knew and respected, but he didn't count this as a favor he owned to any of them.

His coffee was cold and he went for fresh, checking the clock to make sure he had time to get downstairs for Vin's ops review. There wasn't anything he could or would be allowed to say on behalf of one of his team. As their supervisor, though, he had the right to be there for the preliminary review and any time it involved one of his guys and a lethal shot, he did his damnedest to be there. He paused at Vin's desk to look at the phone log the other man had been keeping. He had to work his way through the writing, not because Vin's penmanship was so bad but because Tanner so often used his own kind of shorthand to reduce the number of letters -- and the possible inversion of letters his dyslexia caused -- to be able to take notes at all. Chris smiled a little at it all. A year ago, Tanner's notes had been nearly illegible, like some kind of bizarre code, but Chris had gotten better at it, better at deciphering. There was no embellishment, no added notes as there were on Chris' own log: nothing like 'asshole', 'idiot', 'call back'. Vin took the minimum he needed to make sense of it, return phone numbers written in a column down the log instead of across to further reduce mistakes.

Vin had easily twice as many messages as Chris, including the five from his parents and that made Chris a little angrier for Vin's sake. Stupid and cruel. Insensitive.

He flipped the page and glanced over more of the same then paused.

'THRT.'

That was all. No number or name. Another page and Chris saw it two more times, trying to puzzle it out and then his eyes narrowed and he picked up the phone, punching in the code to pull the archived message.

No voice mail message that came into the ATF was ever really deleted or erased. They were all archived to tape, catalogued, the same way the video recordings in hallways and entrances were catalogued and stored. And the taxpayers thought all their money was going to big shiny new guns and field communications and state of the art surveillance. They'd shit bricks if they realized how much was paid every month to store tapes.

He had to forward through the messages, glad Vin was meticulous in his record keeping, numbering each call.

Better be watching your back, Agent Tanner. When you're looking through a sight, you never know what may sneak up behind you.

Male voice, deep. There was no other indication of age or race. Chris flagged the message, hoping they could get a call tag on it and forwarded through messages to the other two 'THRT' marked calls.

You're no better than a murderer. You'll get your just rewards and hiding behind a badge won't help you.

A woman this time, high and shrill, almost like she was crying.

The third was like the first but not the same voice, Chris thought. Glancing at the clock he saw it was just before eight and he should call it in so he could get to the ops review but he sat, his need for coffee forgotten. He went back to Vin's unheard messages, punching through them and adding his own notes to Vin's logs.

Josiah returned just at eight and the Buck and JD arrived only minutes later. "Check your messages," Chris said, pausing. "Josiah," he wrote down the archive code and handed it to him. "These are flagged, get a run through the switchboard and communications. See if we can get anything on them at all. Local, long distance..."

"Whoa, Chris, what's up?" Buck asked.

"You see the news last night?"

Buck shook his head. "No. Nathan and JD and I played a few games of pool. I hit the bed when we got home."

"Vin's name was on the news and now he's got threats on his voice mail," Chris said and saw Buck's usually smiling mouth tighten in anger. He smiled at that. "Travis had it pulled but a few people saw it. Just make sure you don't have more of the same."

Buck nodded and Chris went back to it, barely looking up when Ezra and Nathan arrived, letting Buck give them the current task.

He was near the end of them when he stopped and called Josiah over, a different kind of threat catching his attention. He put it on speaker.

_ //There's damnation for sinners, and retribution. The blood you spilled stains your own house, a house of a false gods, of perverted words. Murderers and whores and sodomites, Perjurers, and Pharisees, and thieves… Those who know the one god, the true god, who do not hide behind the walls and artistry of man's vanity will tear your walls down, lay fallow your fields and leave your women barren. Your seed will fall to no good issue. The sins of your flesh be revisited upon you again and again. The enemies of the lord know you, Vincent Tanner...and will wait for you among the fires of purification, for all of Sodom was punished, and the children of Caine....and the false children of Israel… This is the only mercy.//  
_  
Chris played it twice, very glad Vin hadn't heard this one and watched Josiah, waiting for confirmation of what he suspected.

"Sounds a bit like our departed madman, Deke Hollinger," Josiah said. "Pretty much the party line, from the tapes I heard this morning, what I heard him say yesterday."

"What was he screaming about?" Nathan asked. "Ain't no fundamentalism I ever heard, despite the fire and brimstone."

"I'm not sure it is, or at least not the kind of fundamentalism we're used to hearing," Josiah said. "The chief complaint Hollinger had seemed to be against the structure of organized religion -- not just the physical buildings but the institution of religion versus the tenets of faith. 'False Gods', 'Houses built on blood and toil'. And the bombings were mixed -- Lutheran, Pentecostal, Methodist, Episcopal. Some faiths more structured than others, but all of the houses or worship were fairly good sized. Hard to get a good sample, though, on four churches...which is a good thing I suppose," Josiah said. "But it makes it harder to figure out what Hollinger was after."

"Or why he suddenly decided that it was insufficient unto his needs to simply destroy buildings -- or people. He would have expired in that blast with the rest of the parish," Ezra said, green eyes narrowed. "Can't quite further your goals of eternal salvation when you are in small, bite-sized pieces."

"Jeez, Ezra, could you be a little more graphic?" JD said.

"Apologies, Mr. Dunne. But something tipped him past the need to proselytize and into suicide. Which, I take it, was not an unforgivable sin in his own faith."

Chris turned over the speculations in his mind, not liking the conclusions he was coming to any better than the ones Ezra had pulled together. "Keep at it. Finish clearing Vin's message and see if we can get any kind of back trace on them at all. I'm going to the review. I'll check back with you boys for anything more before I snag Travis. I don't want Vin or any of us to be the targets of retribution."

"I'd say it's a little late for that, pard," Buck said seriously, replaying the last message.

Chris glared at him but nodded. Grabbing his suit jacket out of his office, he headed downstairs checking his watch. Twenty after eight, which meant Vin would most likely just be finishing his overview of what he had done from hitting the site until it had been secured.

He slipped inside the office being used for the review, making sure Vin saw him and he smiled a little when a little of the tension in Vin's face and shoulders eased. The three reviewers barely acknowledged his entrance and gave him no challenge. He recognized all of them: Dave Watson, supervisor for Team One, Allison Hansen from Research and Forensics, and Jay Randall who was Lawrence McCall's counterpart from the Western Division. He'd probably been on a plane from Portland before forensics had finished picking the church apart for evidence.

Of the three, Randall was the one he knew the least about. McCall was there as well, sitting in a corner, and he flicked his eyes at the empty chair next to him. Chris was a little surprised that Travis wasn't here, but he might show yet. And it was a preliminary review while the board decided if it needed to pursue further action and in what direction.

They were still in the middle of the basics, the tape recorder in the middle of the table and all three of the reviewers taking notes on the lists of preset questions they had.

"What was the distance from you to the target, Agent Tanner?" Hansen asked. "If you'd mark the schematic." There was a clear film covered sketch of the church, the surrounding buildings and the adjoining streets on the table.

"About 600 yards," Vin said. "From here," he said, putting a small mark in red at the basic approximation of his position.

"Angle of the shot?"

"About 65 degrees, from the northeast."

"Not exactly optimal," Hansen said.

"No, ma'am," Vin said, offering no more than what she was asking.

"Nothing available from the south?" Dave Watson asked, grey eyes studying the schematic. He knew Vin, knew his rep but he was far more a by the book kind of supervisor than Chris knew himself to be.

"No, sir. The only window Hollinger shot out on that side was further toward the front of the church. We tried, but there wasn't anything we could see from that angle. We tried the roof of the pharmacy, here." Vin tapped out the other position on the schematic. "Too high and no windows on the side."

"We, Agent Tanner?" Jay Randall asked.

"Had Dan Richards with me from Team 3 trying to line up a shot."

"Is he on the list?" Randall asked and Hansen nodded, pointing out his name.

Randall made a note and they went on, spending another fifteen minutes on the logistics and geography. Chris' fist clenched against his cheek, knowing the questions were necessary but still wishing the minutiae didn't seem more important than the results.

"Why not use the bell loft?" Randall asked, pointing out the area on the church blueprint.

"Only access was through the altar area," Vin said, staring at it. "Rear door, opened in toward the altar. No trap in the roof."

Vin had checked, had wanted to try it but it would have left him blind to Hollinger and Chris had nixed it. He wished he were the one answering these questions instead of Vin. He'd get his chance.

They moved on to the shooting itself and Chris seriously wished himself elsewhere. Vin was cool, calm, showing nothing, which Chris wasn't sure was a good thing.

"Hollinger was getting agitated. Senior Agent Larabee told me to take the best shot I could. I informed him of the likelihood of a civilian casualty. He acknowledged it and I made the shot."

"Your report says you missed the first one?"

"Yes, sir," Vin said meeting Randall's eyes. "Bells started ringing. Both targets moved. First shot caught Hollinger in the side of the neck, second in the forehead."

"And had they not broken the pattern, where was your first shot intended?"

Vin didn't blink. "Left temple of the hostage."

"Kill shot."

"Yes, sir."

"Use of untenable force," Randall said and Chris sat up, ignoring the hand McCall laid on his arm.

"No, sir," Vin said steadily.

"And how do you figure that, Agent Tanner?"

"There was no way for me to get to Hollinger without going through Barrett first," Vin said quietly.

"You couldn't disable him?"

"Tried to find a way. Didn't have enough range of fire for a back shot and couldn't risk the realign from a leg while Hollinger was holding the trigger on the explosives."

Randall pressed on, going through a dozen options, all of which Vin and Chris and Dan Richards had tried to cover. Randall was locked on the use of untenable force and Vin's answers got shorter and more terse as the man tried to find a wedge in Vin's rationale: a weakness in his judgement. There was no doubt that's what he was trying to do -- hell, what he was here to do. Dave Watson interrupted to give Vin a little breathing room, covering ammunition and drift, the positions of the other hostages. Vin relaxed a little, hands under the table and Chris had no doubt that his thumb and open hand were pushing bruises into his thigh.

All in all it was brutal but not necessarily out of line, Chris thought -- if he were being fair. He wasn't inclined to be. Randall didn't linger overly long on the fact that Vin had missed -- his concern was for the order to kill the hostage if necessary, but Chris had already known he'd be called to the carpet for it, regardless of the outcome. That change in operational procedure was recent and not well-liked, the controversy over it still rattling nerves and windows. It might even have been worse had Vin not missed and at the very least the news coverage would have put them all on suspension.

Vin got the three days -- Chris expected no less and was a little surprised it wasn't more, given Randall's hard line on the use of force. It was entirely possible Chris might find himself on suspension as well and he decided he might even like it, paid or unpaid. It was only nine o'clock in the morning and he already felt like he had put in twelve hours and his own review wasn't until the end of the day.

Vin was on his feet, the swiftness and tension of the move giving Chris more an idea of how entirely rattled Vin was than if he'd been shaking. Chris got up as well, ready to get back to the business he'd left with the rest of the team when Randall stopped Vin.

"Agent Tanner," he said, a different folder open in front of him. "A moment."

"Sir," Vin said, turning back.

"According to your file, you were a sniper in the service."

"Yes sir," Vin's brows came together, and Chris frowned. It was in his file.

"Did you ever have civilian targets in your tour of duty?"

Vin hesitated, Randall's sharp eyes studying him. "I was a Ranger, sir. Special forces."

"Never questioned your orders?"

"Not exactly encouraged, sir," Vin said, stressing the title.

"Yes or no will do, Agent Tanner. Did you, during your time as a Ranger, ever disobey a shoot to kill order?" Randall said stiffly.

Vin lifted his chin, blue eyes going hard and cold and Chris half expected him to let loose some of that anger he'd been hoarding since yesterday.

"Yes. Sir," he said flatly.

"Did you question the shoot to kill order, yesterday?"

"No." Said with no hesitation and no honorific.

"Why not?"

Vin did hesitate then, a twitch in his jaw but he didn't look at Chris, wasn't seeing anything or anyone but Randall. "I was able to do my own assessment. There wasn't any other shot to make."

"And if you'd waited?"

"Then I might not have had to make the shot at all. We could have been picking bits of the church and hostages out of the trees."

Chris bit back on his smile, but it wasn't funny.

"Or not...Senior Agent Larabee gave you the go ahead."

"Yes."

Randall met Vin's stare beat for beat then glanced at Chris. "Very well. Thank you, Agent Tanner."

"Sirs. Ma'am," Vin said, and Chris caught him moving out of the corner of his eye, still locking gazes with Randall. He wasn't sure what he saw in the Division Commander's gaze but he was pretty sure he didn't like it.

"Next appointment is at 9:30," McCall said, breaking the tension and stepping just enough in front of Chris to break his line of sight. McCall turned to him and flicked his eyes at Vin's departing back. "Gun and badge, Chris," he said softly and Chris nodded.

"Might want to order a muzzle," he couldn't help but snipe with a glance at Randall and McCall gave him a look. Chris ignored it, put his back to all of them and left.

Vin wasn't at the elevators and Chris checked the lobby of the meeting area, catching the eye of the administration receptionist. "Frances, did you see Vin Tanner?"

She nodded, smiling a little, but her brown eyes didn't lend any warmth to it. "Took the stairs. Watch it though, he might have taken the hinges off," she warned and Chris thanked her, distracted, not liking the fact that Vin's agitation had been so apparent.

He took the elevators, pinging out only to find Buck and Nathan on him the minute the doors opened.

"Jeezus, what the hell happened?" Buck asked.

"What?" Chris demanded, a little startled.

"Vin just came through here like the Flash, went into your office, came out, grabbed his coat and left. Looked like he was going to a fire," Nathan said and Chris swore softly, heading for his office.

Vin's badge and service revolver were on his desk. "Did he say anything?"

"Not a word,' Buck said, close on his heels.

"Did you tell him about the calls -- the messages?" Chris asked them -- all of them.

"Mr. Tanner gave none of us any opportunity for conversation of any kind. Not so much as a grunt of displeasure," Ezra said. "I take the review was...completed?"

Chris closed his eyes and ground his teeth. "For now. Dammit," he said softly and opened his eyes. The rest of the team looked at him expectantly, but patiently, curiosity at war with anger on behalf of their teammate plain on every single face although both Josiah and JD looked more worried than angry.

"Tougher than you thought?" Josiah asked quietly.

"Maybe but..." Chris took a breath and sat on the edge of Buck's desk. "Randall, Western Division commander, got a little...pushy at the end but Vin was already rattled," he said and it was true and no use trying to hide it from the rest of the team. They'd known it, seen it yesterday. In truth, they might all be a little more worried if Vin hadn't been rattled.

Killing wasn't something that came easy to any of them, at least Chris prayed not. Easy to do yes, when necessary, but not a decision made lightly or without consequences. The Bureau made sure of it, reviewing every fatal shooting and a goodly portion of the non-fatal ones, both for rationale and repercussions, including the mental and emotional ones that every agent faced.

Vin was better at it than most. Better at the mechanics and better at being able to separate when killing was the only viable answer and when it was a poor choice to resolve something. Usually. He had to be. That kind of steady personality was almost a requirement to be a sniper within the bureau. Nearly every sharpshooter in the division had the same kind of personality -- slow to anger, calm. Chris had noticed that the other seven who held that position in the Special Operations Group teams with Vin didn't actually talk to each other much. Vin trusted a couple of the guys -- Dan Richards from Team Three, Mike Doyle from Team Four -- to spot for him, otherwise he'd rather use Chris or Josiah if he could. But he wasn't on social terms with the other snipers.

And the others weren't quite the loners Vin normally was. Both the other men Vin liked were married, friendly enough; Mike Doyle better known for his easy sense of humor than his marksmanship. The man always seemed to be in a good mood. Chris knew that after every fatal shoot, Doyle headed for the nearest church to confess. Chris had been really glad it hadn't been Doyle they had tapped yesterday.

As much as he wanted to go after Vin, he needed to give the man his space and in the meantime, it wasn't like they didn't have other things to occupy their minds.

"Three days?" Buck asked and Chris nodded.

"Guess we should be glad it wasn't more. Let him cool off." //Again,// Chris thought and pulled off his jacket. "You get anything on those calls?"

His Team took a moment to recover, Ezra glancing at the elevators as if he wanted to go after Vin and Chris, feeling his gut tighten, met his gaze when he turned back around. "Ezra, check with the switchboard -- see if they have any other calls banked," he said and Ezra inclined his head.

Buck gave Chris a quick glance, eyes narrowed, when Ezra headed downstairs to do it in person instead of calling but Chris said nothing, once again asking them for what they had. He needed to meet with Travis. He needed to watch Vin's back and trust Ezra to make sure Tanner didn't do anything truly stupid.

They hadn't found much. No further threats had come in since the switchboard started screening the calls -- at least none that they knew of yet. Josiah had moved the ones they had onto audio tapes and was having the forensics team check them for background noise or other identifiers and had pushed the transcriptionists to get him the tapes on Hollinger. JD and Nathan had managed to dig up some information on Hollinger but they weren't close to done.

It wasn't much though and Chris called Travis with little more than a bad feeling.

"You want him protected?" was Travis' first question and Chris appreciated that more than he would ever be able to tell his boss.

"Better than we can?" Chris smiled easily for the first time all day.

Travis chuckled. "There is that. He's off for three days. Tell him to keep a low profile. We'll take it seriously but some of it is likely to be no more than crackpots coming out of the woodwork. Tell Sanchez to keep up on his evaluations and we'll get you some help on tracking down whoever or whatever organization Hollinger may have been associated with."

"We already know he was an NRA member," Chris said. "Big surprise. History of mental instability, depression. Think that's a requirement to join?"

"Might be, except that would mean the NRA had to do some kind of psych screening and we both know what they think about that," Travis said gruffly. "Keep me up to date with what you find, Chris. I'm going to sit on the panel when they talk to McCall at one. If you think Tanner needs to talk to someone, you make it happen."

"Take it you heard?"

"About Randall? Yes. I'll step in but right now...he's doing his job, Chris. And this isn't like Vin."

Chris sighed. "No. It's not. But what he did in the service isn't part of this."

"Bullshit," Travis growled and Chris' mouth tightened. "Don't turn a blind eye, Chris. Because if you do, someone else will damn sure be looking. Keep your house in order. You can't protect them if you are blind to their faults. Am I making myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Chris said flatly.

"Good. You want to get pissed off at somebody, you do it with me. And you find out what bug Tanner's got up his ass before someone else does."

"He was ordered to kill a civilian," Chris snarled.

"But he didn't. And the chances are that he's likely to be ordered to do so again at some point. The bad guys are getting crazier, Larabee. That means we have to get tougher. And I shouldn't have to tell you any of this. They'll probably suspend you as well. Use that time the way it was meant to be."

"Yes, sir," Chris said again, with less heat but he was still annoyed. "I'll keep you updated. Anything else?"

Travis chuckled. "No. But then you called me. Anything else I should know about?"

Chris actually gave it some thought. "Not at the moment."

"Good. I'll see you at five and you get your temper in check before you get there."

"Yes, sir," Chris said, barely civil and Travis didn't notice or didn't care. Chris hung up feeling like a scolded teenager and rightfully so. He should try to remember this next time he had to dress down one of his Team: except they usually *were* behaving like unruly teenagers.

He fingered the phone, wanting to call Vin, check on him, glancing up at the others working hard to find information on Hollinger, on the phantoms threatening their teammate. Chris was of the same opinion as Travis -- he doubted the threats were serious but at the same time, he wasn't about to treat them lightly. Vin had said he would head to the ranch and Chris was willing to take him at his word.

But he picked up the phone anyway.

** Monday, 9:05 a.m., Federal Building, Denver**

Vin slammed into the garage, wishing he could actually slam the heavy steel door but it wouldn't. It would close fast and then slow, the little hydraulic hinge slowing the massive door before it made contact. It was annoying.

He could slam the door on the jeep though and did, then had to spend a few minutes resecuring the plastic and canvas soft side when the ancient snaps gave way under the force. God help him if there was a stiff wind outside. He'd be freezing his ass off after five minutes on the road.

The music on the radio annoyed him too, grated on nerves which were already raw. He turned it off and his phone, laying the latter on the seat. He needed silence and quiet and it wasn't likely he'd get either until he got to the ranch.

The driving helped though and Vin forced himself to calm down, trying to regain some of the calm his teammates all thought came to him as easily as breathing. Usually they were right. Normally he was able to reach that stillness inside himself and see things more clearly, separate what he knew from what he felt. Normally it didn't require much effort or thought. Normally he wouldn't have let himself get to the point where he had to think about it.

Vin caught sight of the Jag tailing him when he turned north toward his apartment. He hadn't given any of them much of a chance to say anything, barely able to keep his thoughts in order enough to turn in his badge and gun.

He hadn't questioned the order. Randall had asked him why and it had been a hell of a lot easier to give him half of a truth than the whole would have been. It pissed him off that he'd let the man get to him.

Somehow telling Randall or any of them that it was because Chris gave the order felt like a huge mistake to make. But it would have been the truth, all of it. Not that he never questioned Chris' orders but it was a whole lot easier to sort out why the leader of Team 7 gave an order than it ever had been in the army where the idea of following orders without question was holy writ.

And it wasn't that alone. Vin found himself second-guessing his reasons and rationales and motives with a bewilderment that left him uncertain and a little scared. He hadn't been this unsure of himself since adolescence and that had been lack of experience more than anything. He'd gained that experience the hard way and he supposed, after he took a deep breath and gave himself a few seconds to think, this was no different. Except he was pretty sure getting beat up would be a hell of lot easier than trying to sort out the overwhelming sense of guilt and anger and fear he hadn't been able to shake.

A glance in the rearview showed Ezra still followed him but he wasn't really trying to hide the fact. If he stopped the jeep and told Ezra he was fine, chances were he might leave it at that. Because this was worry, plain and simple, concern for a friend and had it been anyone else in his situation, Vin knew he might be the one trailing after one of the others, just to make sure, reassure his own self that they were okay. Might get his head bit off or, in an extreme situation, might get a fist launched at his head or a few words tossed at him that he wasn't too fond of -- but it would pass. Afterwards, he'd only remember the fact that a friend had cared enough to put himself through all that aggravation.

Predictable as sunrises, the whole crew of them, he thought, pulling into one of the scant few parking spaces at the market near his apartment and waited, smiling a little while Ezra pulled the Jag in next to him.

A sign of true friendship, that Ezra would bring that shiny bright thing into Purgatorio, knowing someone was going to have his fancy little cat hood ornament in their pocket if he so much as looked away for a minute.

He was feeling just out of sorts enough to give a few seconds thought to making Ezra get out of his car if he wanted to talk so badly but a chill wind cut through him and he got out, Ezra looking at him, the engine still purring.

It was warmer in the Jag than in his open sided jeep even with the flaps up.

"You know, every time I get in this thing I feel like a drug dealer," Vin said, sliding onto the leather seat and closing the door. It was warmer and he leaned back, rested his head on the high-backed, and admittedly comfortable, seat and stretched his legs out. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

"Thus the allure of such a disreputable occupation," Ezra said and settled as well.

Vin closed his eyes, waiting for it. He could have saved Ezra the trouble: he was worried, they all were. He wasn't sure how much of it was warranted on his behalf and it gave him a prickly discomfort around his spine to have any of his team putting this much emotional energy into what wasn't their problem.

Ezra tapped the steering wheel a little, just a rapid pattern and a thump. "Is there anything I can say or do to help alleviate this unpleasantness?"

Vin smiled a little at that. "I'd say you could buy me a beer but I got errands to run."

Ezra smiled at that, the gold of his tooth glinting. "As easily remedied as that? Good Lord, Vin, you should have said something sooner."

"Yeah," Vin said liking the fact that he'd put the humor in Ezra's face. "Ah, shit, Ez. I don't know what it is. I'm thinking three days off ain't a bad thing. Get my head screwed on straight."

Ezra nodded, then twisted a little to face Vin, the humor fading. "I hope that's it, however, there's more to my following you than that. There were some threats on your voice mail."

Vin nodded, not surprised somebody had checked his logs. Chris probably. "Heard 'em. It's crap."

"Maybe, but there was...one of them may have been the real thing. And with your face and name out there, caution would be indicated."

Vin listened, frowning at Ezra's quick description of the message Vin hadn't heard. "Guess that lets us know he wasn't alone," he said after a moment.

"Possibly. Josiah and JD are trying to see if there are any other fringe affiliations we should worry about."

"Loons 'R Us?" Vin suggested. "Coulda called me with that much."

"Yes, well. You left in a hurry. I merely took an opportunity not to be relegated to file searches and interviews."

Vin chuckled. "You won't be able to avoid them for long." He shook his head and sat forward. "I'll watch my back. I appreciate the head's up, Ez."

"Hollinger was a loon, Vin."

Ezra was watching him with a serious, slightly anxious look on his face and Vin looked away after a moment. "I know that. He would have, maybe, killed that priest, those other folks. We don't know why. But I ...I would have killed Father Barrett and known why."

Ezra studied him, green eyes showing little that Ezra didn't want seen -- something Chris probably should learn. He didn't know why he could tell Ezra this and not Chris, why talking about this to Chris seemed about as appealing as slitting his own throat. "Can't get his face outta my head," Vin said, closing his eyes again because he didn't want to see the lack of reaction in Ezra's eyes. He wasn't sure what he did want: acceptance maybe or even condemnation, something that would give him a clue about how to resolve the ache in his chest and the death rattle whispers in his head.

"Hollinger?"

"Barrett."

"Ahh," Ezra said and Vin opened his eyes again when Ezra laid a hand on his arm. "You were put in a position to kill an innocent man. But you didn't put the good father there and it was very much a case of one life against many. My own included. You saved a good many people, Mr. Tanner. Surely that has to count for something?"

Vin groaned softly in frustration and shook his head. "It does. It...Jesus," he said finally. "Just leave it, Ezra. I can't get two thoughts together. I 'preciate your checking on me. Better get back before Chris has your ass doing more than reading files," he said and opened the door.

Ezra gripped his arm tighter. "Vin. You did the best thing you could in what was a truly execrable situation, and for whatever reason -- it worked out. I've never thought of you as a man who dwells overly long on what might have been."

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe he should have questioned it more. "The situation sucked. Can't argue with you there," Vin said, meeting Ezra's gaze and those eyes weren't hiding anything at the moment. Or Vin didn't think so. The urge to talk about it, get someone else's opinion almost choked him with both need and just the hope that someone could make more sense of it than he was. Someone who wasn't really part of it all.

By all rights he should be talking to Chris about it -- and couldn't for that reason alone. Couldn't talk to Chris because this was ripping through Chris in its own way and that was Vin's fault -- for letting it get to him. He wouldn't burden Chris more with it.

But if he couldn't talk to Chris, then how could he talk to Ezra? Tell Ezra what he couldn't tell his lover, his partner? The other half of him that Vin thought might understand this better. Who should understand what was tearing at Vin and who didn't and there was the root of his anger at Chris.

And Ezra was a friend, a good one. But there was more than just friendship there too and Vin pulled away. He wasn't a man to use his friends and he'd done that once to Ezra already: used affection, attraction, maybe even something more to ease his own fears and doubts in that cavern of a building Juarez had claimed as a home. Just once. It may have been the only good thing of the entire case and Vin burned with the shame of it.

"Vin, talk to me...talk to somebody," Ezra said softly, his concern so plain on his face Vin almost spoke just to ease it.

He'd used Ezra one more time than he should have already and he knew Ezra didn't hold it against him. It made no difference. "I need to pick up some groceries," he said and watched the anxiety in Ezra's eyes linger then be shut away. Couldn't blame the man. Nothing quite like having a door slammed in your face.

"There are still the threats, Mr. Tanner."

"I'm gonna get groceries and clothes and then head to the ranch," Vin said evenly. He might as well be going over the set up for an op. "Can't live my life looking over my shoulder."

"No, just over ours," Ezra said and there was anger underneath that cool delivery.

"Yeah, well, that's why they pay me the big bucks," Vin said and pushed on the door, letting the cold air in. He didn't dare look at Ezra again when he closed the door.

He didn't get much: enough for dinner a few things for himself because once he got to the ranch, he didn't plan on seeing or talking to anyone but Chris and the horses until he came back to work.

If he and Chris talked at all.

Emerging, he found the Jag still there. He was being dogged; Vin not sure if it were the threats or if Ezra were building himself up for another try at talking.

He got in the jeep. Ezra pulled out behind him, followed him to his apartment and waited again. He didn't know if he should be grateful or pissed. Leaving the groceries in the back of the Jeep he hurried upstairs to pack up clothes. It took him only a few minutes and he started to lock up only to pause. He had heard Ezra's warnings and returned to his bedroom to pull his own personal SIG from beneath the mattress, found the extra clips in his desk and packed them with his shoulder holster. Then he had to dig out his permit since he didn't have his badge, only his I.D. With the way things had been going, it would be just his luck to get pulled over and then have to explain a concealed weapon. Wouldn't Chris love to get that call?

He stopped by the Jag again, on the driver's side, and waited for the window to descend before squatting, leaning against the door. Whatever Ezra might have been feeling was well hidden once more, the half smile on his face more indicative of his willingness to let Vin take the lead in whatever understanding they might come to. "People are gonna talk, Ez," Vin said, squinting a little in the winter sunlight. "You gonna follow me all day?"

"No. This is far enough," Ezra said. "Mr. Larabee is trying to call you."

Vin blinked and recalled he'd left his phone on the seat of the jeep, turned off. "I'll call him," he promised, wondering if his phone would still be there. He hesitated. Ezra looked like he had nothing better to do than sit in his fancy car in the middle of one of Denver's worst neighborhoods and contemplate the sparse snowfall. He wanted to say something to reassure Ezra, maybe himself -- it wasn't like they never talked. He sighed softly, looking out over the close packed buildings of brick and granite, concrete. "You ever wonder if we're any better than the folks we try to put away? I mean, I know the reasons are different but...you ever wonder if good can come from bad?"

Ezra looked surprised and caught off guard, green eyes narrowing as he studied Vin's face. "I suppose I could theorize that in our line of work, intention is everything. We aren't taking advantage of people, Vin. Not for profit. Although, looked at from a certain warped philosophy, one might hazard that the criminals we pursue don't necessarily think of what they do as wrong, and therefore we are imposing our view of what is acceptable on their endeavors from a direct and possibly arrogant opinion of our own righteousness."

Vin couldn't stop the slow grin from spreading across his face, shaking his head and chuckling. "God, Ezra...it scares me that you might actually be as smart as you sound."

A quicksilver grin from Ezra made Vin laugh louder. "I take that as a compliment, Mr. Tanner. Point being that, while might may not always mean right, sometimes it makes a difference. And I do believe we do that."

Vin nodded and unfolded himself from his crouch, resettling his pack. "Yeah. I suppose we do at that. I'll see you in a few days. Thanks," he said, the last word softer as he tapped the man's shoulder.

Ezra only nodded and waited until Vin got to his jeep and pulled out behind him, staying there until Vin made his turn for the highway toward Chris' ranch while Ezra headed back into downtown. Once on the highway, Vin finally picked up his phone, taking advantage of the lighter traffic and checked through all three messages from Chris and got his partner's voice mail.

"It's Vin. I'm headed to the ranch," he said. "I sent Ezra back to work." He almost said more but then clicked off and did his best to clear his brain during the less than interesting drive.

By the time he pulled up the gravel drive and far enough off it to give Chris room to park, he felt like he'd recovered some calm, Ezra's words sinking in a little.

It took only a few minutes to move the groceries and his clean clothes into the house, swap out his good slacks and shirt for older, worn jeans, layered shirts, sturdier boots and his jacket, hat on his head and sunglasses to protect his eyes from the glare off the ice crusted snow of the fields. He gave Legius a brush and treat, apologized for leaving him behind but had Sire saddled and ready to go within a half hour.

He should have done this yesterday, he thought, following the familiar trail upward along the foothills, wanting the edge of the tree line to obscure any signs of the house or road or highway in the distance. Having been ridden over the weekend, Sire was feeling less fractious, taking the lead easily enough and only occasionally twisting his head to bite at clumps of snow on low hanging branches. Vin couldn't help but smile at the horse's antics. "Ought to let some of Legius' snooty airs rub off on you, you old cow," Vin said, clicking at the animal and pulling the reins back a bit after he got snow dumped on his shoulder and sleeve. He figured Sire suited him well enough. Not the best looking animal Vin had ever seen but sturdy and steady and a little spirited, opinions of his own and not likely to be easily persuaded to do anything he didn't want. But he was naturally curious. His barn mate was a whole lot better tempered and well bred, and looked it, Vin sometimes wondering what it said about him and Chris. Sire would break his big heart before letting Legius win easily in a race, as if to show the big black that looks weren't everything. But Legius could be a bit of a bully when he was out of sorts, stubborn enough to get Chris cussing.

He chuckled, Sire flicking his ears back at the rough sound. "Doesn't actually take a whole lot to get Chris cussing, does it, boy?" he asked and took a deep breath. He shivered a bit even under the sheepskin and leather, flannel and cotton. Spring couldn't come too soon, even though the days were warmer.

There was a creek high on the east side of Chris' property and Vin headed there, that area allowing him the most uninterrupted view south and west and he needed the space. There was the remains of a tree there, cut down to about an eight foot length, a natural spot for resting and Vin loosely ground tied Sire, letting him root around in the snow for anything that looked tasty or just interesting and sat back on the log. A few minutes of work and he had a small fire going, just enough to keep his legs and hands warm, the scents of woodsmoke and snow and clear, cold air soothing him as nothing else could.

Three days suspension while the investigation continued. The time was meant to allow the agents and their superiors to examine actions outside of the pressures of the job. It made less sense to Vin when there were deaths in the middle of a fire fight, when the whole thing came down to killing before you were killed; when it was a matter of actually trying to take out anyone specific, just making sure the bad guys with the guns didn't kill you, or your friends, or whatever unlucky civilians might be in the line of fire. Not that there weren't trigger happy hotheads in the ATF. There were, sometimes more than Vin wanted to think about, but until someone came up with a litmus test for who was likely to lose it when the lead started flying, it was as much a calculated risk as anything.

He knew what he did was different. Snipers were rarely called upon to disable, not when somebody was shooting, but he did, had and would again, take out a knee or an arm or a hand if he could. But ATF agents were more likely to go for a kill shot than not because there was nothing that excused taking chances with innocent lives. It didn't help that the majority of their cases put them up against criminals who were better armed than they were and who often found civilians in the crossfire a better tactical choice than operating in less populated areas.

He knew it in head and heart, the catch-up training and a hundred lectures and seminars, it felt like he'd attended in the past two years drilling it into his head, in the field, making sure that the shots he took were as much instinct as training. And every op drilled it into him again and again that second guessing yourself was the quickest way to get not only yourself, but someone else killed. It didn't help that not thinking it through, that failing to couple instinct with reason could get someone killed just as easily.

He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes to shut out the image that wouldn't leave him. The flash and haze of blood as the bullet ripped out Hollinger's throat rather than the priest's brains. It hadn't been clean by any means, no matter how fast he'd placed the second shot. Hollinger had known he was dying. Enough time to make the connection.

Father Barrett's face again, terrified and exhausted, eyes wide and lips moving silently to Vin's observation. He didn't know if the priest had been talking to Hollinger or God. He supposed it didn't matter. Josiah might say that either way, he'd been delivered.

When it came down to it, it wouldn't even be marked as his decision to make. It would fall to Chris, who wouldn't back down or back off, even if they fired him. It could get worse than that, might have, had Barrett been killed and Vin couldn't forget it. Couldn't set it aside.

God, when had he come to trust someone else more than himself? It had been a relief at first, to feel that, to know it, deep down in his soul, in his blood, that trusting Chris Larabee would never be a mistake. He believed it now, with every fiber of his being. And it wasn't the same as agreeing with him, but in this he did, had. And that scared him.

The choice had been the right one, the call as solid as it was painful, so it wasn't a problem with or for Chris but his own, to face up to what kind of man he'd become. To try to reconcile it with the hopes his mother had had for him, the sense of right and wrong his grandfather had taught him, merely by being a man of quiet conviction.

And if he took it all to Chris, it might ease the path or make it more difficult for Chris to know what he could and couldn't burden Vin with -- the very crisis of conscience and ethics they'd been trying so hard to make a non issue on the job. It would be so easy though. So easy to let Chris bear this as the leader of their team, as he did so many other decisions within the group. Easy to argue it that way and quietly forget that Chris was also his lover, the man he'd twisted his heart and soul around in ways that still left Vin breathless with the wonder that he could love anyone this much or in this way.

He extended his hand out, flexing fingers; the fore and second, curving them the way he would over a trigger, sighting along an invisible line to a target.

It came as no surprise to him that he was a killer, no matter what name or cause got attached to the actual act. He'd killed for his country, for the law, for his own preservation and the preservation of his friends, closer than family. He knew all that and still, even trying to find a rationale, to know that maybe hundreds could have died without his skill as a killer...still....

The actual act had yet to happen, but in his mind, in his ability to rationalize the price of a life to his own steady aim...

God help him, in setting his soul so close to another so familiar to him that they might have been twins he found that Chris Larabee, all unknowing and without intent, had done what privation of the streets of Denver as a teen had not. What the hard-line absolutes of the army, the tagging of the scum of the earth while bounty hunting and the no-excuses mindset of the marshals had never been able to accomplish....

Being a murderer was only the pull of a trigger away.

##  ~Chapter Three~

** Monday, 4:20 p.m., J.F Reilly Building, Denver**

The roof was more or less flat, slightly bowed in the center to allow rain and snowmelt to drain to the sides rather than gather in the center. The high edged facade was slit cut at regular intervals to allow run-off; the front of the building stained dark after sixty-plus years of use and misuse and holding up to rain and snow. The only working HVAC unit was probably fifteen years old, standing dull-metaled and loud amid the relics of its predecessors. None of the older equipment had been moved out or away through the half a dozen renovations or the latest assault on the old building to clear it of asbestos and lead paint and probably a few hundred dead mice and rats caught in the ancient ductwork. That the owner kept sinking money into it long after the main warehouse district had moved further north said a lot about hope. Hope that maybe someday, someone would see this as yet another aging area, ripe for the ever shifting reclamation by young professionals seeking all that is new and trendy as the migration from the suburbs back to the urban areas continued.

It would take more than a few well-designed lofts to push the area into that realm of profitability though. Three blocks over was another kind of urban Mecca, well occupied and habituated but not by the young and wealthy and trendy, but by the working poor. They often lived ten to a two bedroom apartment in buildings older than this one and glad for it because at least the bus lines ran through the Gates of Hell. The buses weren't as frequent on this side of the rail line that split the area, unused and rusted but mute testament to a time when this area had been busy and profitable. Not many buses or even cars here, which wasn't far from Purgatory, the Gates of Hell, but this area was so forgotten that it didn't even have a nickname of its own. Somehow, the Gates to Nowhere just didn't sing the same way.

The ledge ran on all but one side of the roof of the three story office building. Leaning over that high facade, he could see the railroad tracks below. They cut into the street or the streets were built over them: a haphazard lattice of asphalt and concrete and iron and the overpass. The overpass itself was low and mostly untraveled and rose directly across from the building he stood on, the concrete bridge separating this six block canyon of concrete and revivalist deco offices from the abandoned shells of corrugated metal and steel beyond. Past the overpass there was a building or two, but mostly more warehouses, still in use but their contents not moved as often, and some holding treasures long forgotten. Even with the stiff cold of late winter, the area smelled of stagnant water and mildew and rot, carried on the breeze and catching in the corners of the concrete wind traps that once had been whimsical cornices erected in better economic times.

Randy Hauer watched the area with a dispassionate eye and a laziness that had caused more than one adversary to underestimate him. And despite all appearances, he was alert, eye tracking the taller man stalking the edges of the roof, offering little distraction and no opinions. The snapping energy radiating from his boss was deceptive -- it all looked so undirected -- the man was jazzed and feeling good, not necessarily a good thing for anyone in his way.

Randy himself was a big man, pushing six-five in Converse sneakers and denim. Aside from his size, he was as nondescript a person as could be imagined: unremarkable brown hair over unremarkable brown eyes and an unremarkable and utterly forgettable face. He might be taken for a truck driver or a shop owner or even a father at a little league game. Even now, he stood there, hands in pockets, looking a little bored and maybe confused as to what he was doing on this roof with a man he worked for but barely knew with another man behind them, watching their every move.

"Can you get to him from here? He's fast." His boss had put his back to the ledge and Randy studied him then moved, glancing over the rooftop then down. Dark eyes watched him, edged with patience and humor, although Randy didn't ever want to be the object of this man's humor. Not when he found death to be the funniest thing of all.

"If I'm here ahead of time," Randy said, looking at the derelict casings of old condensers and air conditioners and furnaces. "Clean out one of those units, tuck in snug. Thought you wanted to be here?"

"I will be, but I don't really want to be that close when you are hiding all your little presents," his employer murmured. "But I do want to see his face. How long?"

Hauer shrugged. "Couple of days to rig it up without being seen. Give me twenty-four so I can get in place before you set it up. You want the building leveled?" He asked, eyes cutting toward the other man, taking in the dark hair and neatly trimmed beard. The coloring didn't suit him really, made him look softer, and maybe that was the thing. Hauer had met him when he was blonde with hair halfway to his ass when he looked like nothing so much as someone else's muscle boy. It hadn't taken Hauer long to realize that he was anything but that, but could be that too. Chameleon changeable and loving that he was underestimated and disregarded. Maybe why he took pleasure in seeing the surprise on people's faces when they died.

Given a choice, Hauer would rather deal with this man's former boss, but Chen Juarez was dead and Anthony Hartman -- Mr. Tony Peters now, for now -- hadn't wasted a minute of the ten years he'd worked for the old man. Juarez had had class, Hauer allowed. Hartman did too, but Hauer was pretty sure it was closer to his own class -- that being low. He might envy the man the ability to move between the two but he'd just as soon stay a little low. Fewer people trying to knock you off the mountain that way, and Randall Hauer wasn't lined up to take his shot.

"Good. I'll be finished with the rest of my business in a week or so, just enough time to take care of this," Hartman said softly and Hauer nodded, not offering anything other than what he was asked. He thought it was a waste of both time and effort for a whole lot of trouble. "Set up under the overpass, and here. Just remember, Tanner is mine. The rest are business."

"You seem sure he's going to be the one going high," Hauer said, not so much to challenge but because he was curious.

Hartman turned to look at him and that cold edged humor was back in his eyes. "He will be. Best spot," he added looking around. There was a higher building to the left but the height and the thickness of the overpass hid the open area beneath the bridge and no clearer perch here. "But if he doesn't, well, then he can just be happy he gets to go with his friends. But I'd really like to have him, or one of them, know who and why..." Hartman chuckled.

The joy Hartman was taking in this made Hauer uneasy but he said nothing, marking the roof, picking his spots, glad there was some trash caught in the corners. Wouldn't do to have the target see something out of place. "I'll start tonight."

Hartman nodded and waved him off, barely noticing when Hauer moved away, once more walking the edge of the roof carefully and slowly before heading downstairs.

It could still go wrong, Anthony Hartman knew. Might even be a foolish indulgence on his part when he was right on the verge of moving his operation to Hong Kong, out of the States and out from under the warrant. Of course, if it went well, there was every likelihood that he could move back into his old haunts. Not wise though. Even if he returned, he might try the west coast or the south. He liked Miami. Corpus Christi...

And he did believe in signs. Juarez's religious leanings had driven him crazy but he did understand signs, and opportunities. He just didn't look much deeper for their meanings. Still, there was a certain poetic justice, even cosmic balance in finishing this -- what his former employer had started. Tie up the loose ends, move into his own paths of glory and power. Hartman chuckled. Chen Juarez would have smiled at his ambition and done nothing to stop him.

He didn't have to. Hartman knew there had been more he could have gotten from Juarez if he had lived. He'd expected another few years, at least, before Juarez's odd passions made him more dangerous than instrumental to Hartman's plans.

With a kind of twisted sentimentality, he wished he had time to finish Juarez's last little claim to regain his soul -- ironic justice to have Tanner die in the manner he might have had Juarez not been so careless. Not that Hartman thought Juarez ever would regain his soul, but still, the man had been a mentor. He'd taught Hartman lessons about loyalty and trust that had already put Hartman in a far better position to bargain for goods and services than others who had been in the business longer. Nobody ever fucked with Tony Hartman and lived to tell about it and no one had ever fucked with Chen Juarez and lived to tell about it either...save one.

Anthony Hartman planned on correcting that. He might have let it go had he not run across Tanner again -- and let him slip away.

Bad judgment, bad call and he'd lost millions in the mistake, on thinking that an embittered cop would actually go through with killing other cops, other agents. Well, Matt Collins had fucked with Hartman and not lived to tell the tale.

What he had said, though, that had made Hartman pause. Easier to just do Tanner and leave it, but his team, that same team that had gathered so protectively around their sniper in the news broadcast -- it wasn't likely they'd let Tanner's death go and he just didn't need that kind of aggravation.

This would be almost too clean. That was disappointing but he really didn't have time to handle it with any kind of prolonged finesse -- and Juarez wouldn't have approved. Quick and clean, that had been Juarez's way to handle things. Hartman might have accused him of having no imagination if he hadn't seen just how focused that imagination -- or that madness -- could be when it surfaced.

And hadn't that been what tied them together after all? From the start. From the first young man Juarez had invited into his madness, Hartman had been surprised but not disgusted, had not even blinked. Juarez had accepted his participation in his bloody little rituals as a sign that they were meant to work together, to be the instruments of salvation Chen Juarez had been so desperately seeking.

Anthony Hartman had never given him reason to think otherwise. The duty an employee owed and employer, a student to his mentor, a son to his--

He threw back his head and laughed, making his companion guarding the door a little nervous.

Not a son. No, not that. The bond didn't and never had run so deep. No, this was business and not much more. Tanner was personal and as such really deserved special attention but it would have to suffice that when he died, he'd know his friends died first, and that even symbolically he'd be as alone and defenseless as he'd been strung up in Chen Juarez's wine cellar.

He'd escaped his fate twice. "Third time's the charm, Mr. Tanner," Hartman whispered and stood up. Hauer would take care of this end of things and he had plans of his own to set in motion. He sighed.

It would really, really, be fun if he could break Tanner before he killed him. Life just wasn't fair sometimes.

** Monday, 4:58 p.m., Federal Building, 10th Floor, Denver**

The room hadn't changed except there were more Styrofoam cups in the trash can than there had been earlier in the day and it smelled like too many people had occupied it for far too long. The triumvate of examiners looked less fresh and less patient and the stack of their notes, not to mention the stacks of folders and files, had grown a bit. Chris was half tempted to jerk off his tie and suit jacket and open the throat of his button down. He was tired, his head hurt, the amount of good news garnered during a long day of following leads, hunches and information trails wouldn't fill one of the ubiquitous Styrofoam cups even halfway.

He'd gotten the message from Vin, which alleviated a little of his stress, but he'd heard nothing since and had little doubt that his lover had deliberately left his phone at the house. It would have been nice to hear his voice before he faced the departmental demons, but he settled for knowing that Vin was home and hopefully would be waiting for him when he finished here: a much needed reward for facing his penance so well.

He wasn't surprised to see Travis enter with McCall, before the review actually started. Unpleasant as this would be, there was some comfort garnered from the fact that his immediate and ultimate superiors backed him. It was a standard of practice Chris tried to maintain for his own team and more than once he and Travis and McCall had faced the proverbial firing squad of upper brass both locally and at the home office rather than leave an agent out to dry for something.

Which didn't keep them from kicking ass when it was needed.

Chris found a smile and a chuckle as he realized that Assistant Director Orrin Travis had probably felt the imprint of Lawrence McCall's boot on his rump more than once for backing Chris on a controversial issue.

Some days you just had to know when to bend over and take it and Chris was at that point now. He'd had over 24 hours to think about it and even with everything else going on, he had. Repeatedly.

Allison Hansen had managed to keep the loose gathering of her hair at the nape of her neck in reasonable order, she was rubbing her eyes though, under the black rims of her designer glasses. The fatigue showed on her face as exactly what it was -- tiredness and maybe some relief that this day was almost over. Her male counterparts had retreated from any obvious expression of their own fatigue: Dave Watson struggling to maintain politeness and civility if only to make a dislikable task bearable. Jay Randall just looked out of sorts and irritated.

The recorder got turned on and Chris launched into his description of the previous day's events, a relation of facts he'd practiced in his head for most of the day. He doubted it varied much from other versions the panel had heard at least six times today, and would hear again tomorrow. He went over the situation, the deployment of personnel, the layout of church and the relative positions of both Hollinger and his hostages. Routine and by the book, he knew...was certain of maybe more with this op than on any other. Hollinger hadn't given them many options.

But then they were down to it and Chris tried to mentally brace himself for what was coming.

"Were you aware of the nature of the explosives allegedly set by Hollinger?" Allison Hansen asked, looking over a report. Chris almost snorted. Alleged? The man was dead and there would be no fouling of press reports or libel laid at the bureau's door for accusing the man of crimes before he came to trial.

"I know there was C-4 in the chapel," Chris said. "I haven't seen the explosives report, so, no. Not all of them. Is that the report?"

She nodded and pushed it over to him. "Came up an hour ago."

And had been delivered to the panel before the investigating teams. Chris bit back his annoyance and scanned the report. "Jesus..." he said, softly, having suspected from the on scene reports of the bomb squad that Hollinger had been prepared for World War Three.

Or Armageddon.

C-4, Tetracene..."Dynamite? Christ," Chris couldn't help but curse softly. Old dynamite, unstable and volatile, likely to explode if it were dropped or jostled too much. Hollinger really hadn't expected to come out of it alive -- or he had been the world's biggest idiot.

Hansen made a small sound and Chris looked up, passing the report back. "They're still checking out the church with dogs."

Chris hoped so. The dynamite they had found had been old, dangerously so. A stick left alone, wedged somewhere, waiting like a landmine, was a very real possibility.

"It wouldn't have changed anything -- what we knew was there was enough. They found enough C-4 in the chapel to bring down the roof," Chris said, eyeing Hansen and wondering why she had lead with that question, knowing full well he hadn't seen the report.

"Enough for you to think the man was suicidal?" Hansen asked.

"I think any man holding a remote trigger in a building known to have explosives planted is either suicidal or stupid. Treating him like he was stupid would have been fatal." He met Hansen's gaze dead on, not worrying too much about how his words went over with Watson or Randall.

"Is that your general opinion of bombers, Senior Agent Larabee?" Randall asked, tone far less accusatory than it had been with Vin earlier in the day.

"That they are either suicidal or stupid?" Chris asked.

"Agent Larabee, it's been a long day and your attitude is neither necessary or appreciated." Randall leaned forward, eyes showing nothing but irritation, and body language as aggressive as Chris knew his own to be.

"Then why don't you ask me what you want to know?" Chris said softly and very carefully. "Did I think Hollinger was suicidal? Yes. Did I think him capable and willing to take as many people with him when he went as he could manage? Yes. The only thing that gave us any time to *do* anything was the fact that he had something to say before he died."

"How do you feel about bombers, Agent Larabee? Personally," Randall asked, sitting back.

Chris leaned forward, palms flat on the table. He wasn't sure where Randall was going with this and the fact that man seemed incapable of asking a direct question made him wary, and angry. "Could you be more specific, please, Commander Randall?" he said.

Randall flushed slightly. "Just answer the question, Mr. Larabee. However you want to take it."

"They aren't among my favorite kind of criminal," Chris said finally and sat back. "Some of them are predictable to the point of being almost militaristic, others, like Hollinger," he said with emphasis, "are both unpredictable and difficult to deal with. And they are all terrorists," he added as much to see Randall's reaction as because he really felt that way.

"And you think the best way to deal with them is to eliminate them?" Randall asked.

"I think they need to be neutralized as quickly as possible," Chris said and glanced at Travis. His boss was sitting back, looking about as pleased with the line of questioning as Chris was. "With minimal loss of life, if possible."

"Including the life of the bomber?" Randall pressed.

"If possible," Chris repeated and had an odd chill crawl up his neck, one that got more pronounced when Randall hesitated before going on.

"I understand...and my apologies for bringing up a painful event...that you lost your wife and son to a car bomb."

The chill turned to ice and Chris literally couldn't breathe for a few moments. He couldn't think either, not really, even though part of him insisted he really, really needed to think through his answer...or keep it short. He opted for the latter. "Yes," he said through clenched teeth.

"And that the bomber responsible for their deaths has never been brought to justice or even identified?"

"Yes," Chris said again. "Get to the point."

"You said you consider all criminal bombers to be terrorists. You gave a shoot to kill order of a civilian to neutralize a 'terrorist'. I'm trying to determine if you are seeking a kind of surrogate justice for the murder of your family."

Well, that was certainly to the point and had Chris had another few minutes to see where Randall's questions were going he might have handled it better, but the whole idea was such a shock, he couldn't even get his brain around it. But he was pretty clear he hadn't been thinking of Sarah and Adam when the call came in, not in the church, not afterward...even now, making the connection seemed to be difficult. "No, sir," he said finally.

"Are you sure, Mr. Larabee? You had one suspect. A dozen men inside the building--"

"--And a hundred hostages," Chris said flatly.

"Did you try negotiations?"

Chris sat up straighter. "Yes," he said. It was in his report and he'd just told them that in the overview. "The negotiator came in and he, Hollinger, shot a deacon."

"Your own agent Sanchez is qualified as a negotiator, correct?"

"Yes."

"Did Josiah try to talk to him?" Dave Watson asked, stepping in to deflect and Chris glared at him.

"Yes. Hollinger told him to shut up. He didn't want to talk -- to us."

"And your men pulled back."

"To the entrance, last row," Chris said. "Because he shot the windows out. He didn't want to talk -- he wanted an audience."

"You had a half dozen men in the church and none of you could get a shot?" Randall said.

"Not without hitting a hostage."

"Which you ordered anyway."

"Only when we were out of options." Chris made a conscious effort to relax the tension in his neck and his jaw.

"Like *wounding* the hostage, any hostage? If you had forced one of those choir members to go down, leg or arm shot, winged or otherwise lightly incapacitated, couldn't you or one of your other men have hit Hollinger?"

"Not without going through the priest," Chris snapped. "Hollinger kept Barrett in front of him, angled toward the pews. Even if we had *wounded* one of those choir members, there would still have to be a second shot at a different angle. You think Hollinger didn't know what kind of a shield he was holding? If he'd returned fire there would have been more than one hostage wounded."

"There was still the door from the sacristy."

"Which would have given blind entrance to anyone I sent in there. It wouldn't take much for Hollinger to be able to get the first shot off, or God help us -- trigger the explosives. Maybe you should do a site survey."

"We intend to," Randall said.

"We're going tomorrow, Larabee," Dave Watson put in. "Point being, we weren't there," he said but his gaze was aimed at Randall and Chris sat a little straighter in his chair, alert to a fracture in the united front the panel was supposed to maintain.

"You gave Tanner the order to shoot the hostage, kill him if necessary," Randall said as if Watson hadn't spoken.

"I told Agent Tanner to take the best shot he could, any way he could. The only one he had, at that time, was through the hostage."

Randall stared at him. "So you didn't directly order him to kill the hostage to get to Hollinger?"

Chris glanced at Travis and McCall. What the hell was Randall getting at? "I believe I just said I did," he said evenly. "Agent Tanner advised me that a civilian casualty was likely."

"But the call was his."

"The 'call' is always his," Chris snapped. "He was thirty feet above us at an entirely different angle. He had a spotter, but there isn't any way I could see what he saw. What Dan Richards saw."

"And you trusted his judgement?"

"I'd damn well better trust the judgment of my team," Chris said coldly and saw Travis sit back. He took a breath wondering if he'd just said the wrong thing. "Limited range of fire, Commander. You do know what that means, don't you?" he said.

"I'm not going to warn you again, Agent Larabee. Park the attitude. No one here disputes the fact that it was a bad situation--"

"No? You've got me fooled and I don't fool easily," Chris said. "If Agent Tanner could have gotten behind Hollinger, he would have. If any one of us had been able to get a clearer shot, believe me -- we'd have taken it. Just remember, Commander, my men were in that same rigged to blow building."

"Has Agent Tanner every disobeyed an order from you?" Randall asked, continuing before Chris could answer. "In the field?" he qualified.

"No."

"You're certain?" Dave Watson asked quietly.

Chris hesitated before answering. He was pretty damn sure Dave Watson was trying to guide him cautiously through a mine field and he took the lead carefully. "Yes. He has *questioned* orders, but never disobeyed." Not that anyone would ever see on paper, but they might hear it in gossip and not just about Vin. Chris was pretty sure that was where part of this was coming from. Vin had no reprimands in his personnel folder from Chris for not following orders, no matter what his files with the US Marshals might say, something he was pretty sure Randall was aware of.

"So, without the shoot to kill order on the hostage, you're saying Agent Tanner had no shot?" Randall asked.

Dave Watson's gaze dropped to the desk then back to meet Chris' eyes.

Was that what had happened? Was he saying that? Oh, Christ, Chris thought, sitting back, wondering what he had done. If it hadn't been an option what would they have done? What could they have done? Drawn fire some other way? Distracted, diffused? What would have been the body count then?

Would he even be here to have this conversation?

"Agent Larabee?" Randall prompted.

"That's kind of a non issue. It was the shot we had," Chris said.

"No, Agent Larabee. It's the shot Tanner had. Can you honestly tell me that he would have missed a hand shot? That by taking the hostage out at the knees wouldn't have given one of you enough time or clearance to get the suspect. I've looked over Tanner's rankings. He's that good. Maybe too good. His decision, not yours, isn't that correct?" Randall said.

"No," Chris said quickly, harshly. He could well be seeing his career washed down the tubes but Randall wasn't making Vin take the ride with him. "He would never have taken that shot without my okay. Get this straight, Commander. I asked him what he could do, when he could do it and how. My decision."

"And you're certain your decision wasn't based more on the need to remove this bomber, this terrorist, from threatening society, rather than concern for the hostages? Knowing Tanner would follow your lead?"

"Jay--" Allison Hansen said sharply and she was tight lipped.

"Are you trying to imply that I have a personal vendetta against bombers?" Chris asked. "Or that I was using one of my own men to further that agenda?"

"I didn't say that--"

"You are damn close to it," Chris said, getting to his feet. "If you've got something to say, Commander, I'd suggest you get to it." He was seething and his only viable choices were to leave or wipe the supercilious smug look off Randall's face, preferably with his fist.

"Larabee, sit down!" Orrin Travis said, only loudly enough to be heard, but steel-toned and flat. "Commander Randall," Travis turned his attention to the man who ostensibly outranked him. Beside him Lawrence McCall was flushed and looked like he was ready to cut some hide off Randall himself -- or Chris. Chris couldn't be sure. "If you have opinions concerning why my people make the decisions they make, I suggest you so note them. But I am very close to registering a bureaucratic review of these proceedings if you don't stop treading the fine line between supposition and accusation."

Randall almost said something but then closed his mouth and flipped through his notes. "I'm done. For now," he said after a moment.

Dave Watson and Allison Hansen did their best to lower the temperature in the room with only marginal success. He got his three days -- Randall looking like he wanted more and Chris would have gladly given it to him. He slammed both gun and badge on the table in front of Randall without being asked, gave a nod to Hansen and Watson and stalked out, Orrin Travis right behind him. The door didn't even close before he could hear Lawrence McCall demanding answers to questions Chris didn't even want to ask.

"What the fuck was that about?" he snapped at Travis, not even making it to the elevators. Travis held his hands up.

"Get a hold of yourself, Agent Larabee," Travis said all but backing him up, and doing so warily.

"No, Goddammit!" Chris said, holding position belligerently. "Ops review, *Director*. What happened and why, not what could have happened or might have if, God help us, Hollinger had shot out the rear windows of the damn church instead of the front ones!"

Travis flushed, anger dancing in the grey eyes and did what few men would risk: reached out and grabbed Chris' arm and moved him toward the elevators. "This is not the time or place, Agent Larabee," he said, and let Chris go when he jerked his arm free. The elevators pinged and opened and they got in, Travis punching in the number for the floor his own offices were on.

Chris bit his tongue and paced, taking the length of the six by six car in two paces and turning. When the doors opened again, Travis urged him out, heading for his office, his secretary already gone. He all but pushed Chris into the office, closed the door and locked it. "Not one word," he snapped when Chris opened his mouth and Travis went to the credenza to pull out glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He poured generously and handed Chris the glass then waited until Chris took a drink. "Not my cure all but you need something to bite on," he said and took a sip of his own. "Sit down."

"I'm officially suspended," Chris shot back, and downed the rest of the bourbon, wishing it wasn't quite so smooth. He'd rather have the fire of bad whiskey. "And now I'm officially drunk on the job."

"Sit down, Chris," Travis said again and took a seat at his desk. He glanced at the messages there but only for a moment. He said nothing when Chris poured another drink. "I'm not driving you home. Sit."

Chris hesitated, seeing the anger still in Travis' eyes and feeling his own burn deeply. He pulled one of the leather chairs back and sat. "What the hell is he after?"

"I'm not sure, but I'll find out. That's my job, Chris. Mine. I warned you about your temper. And you should damn well know better -- the whole point is to make sure your head is clear. And this was bad -- the whole damn thing."

"No kidding," Chris said and leaned forward, pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead. A thump and a rattle and a bottle of Tylenol rolled to the edge of the desk. He caught it. Setting his drink down on the edge of the desk, he popped the bottle and took four, washing them down with the bourbon. "Thanks. Is he after Vin?"

Travis didn't seem surprised by the question but he shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I'm not entirely sure he is gunning for you either -- but I do know that the 'Acceptable Hostage Loss' bites deeply for him. He's opposed it all the way down the line. And he may have a point -- not just for the safety of the hostages."

"Say what you mean," Chris said, his temper leashed but not by much.

"I'd rather not, actually, except I've seen good agents go down under less pressure and I don't want you or your team to be the next ones to fall. If Randall has an agenda, I'll figure it out. That's my job too, but I'm going to ask you this, Chris, and I expect an honest answer -- off the record if necessary."

Chris lifted his head. "Vin wouldn't have taken the shot without my order," he said.

Travis eyed him speculatively for a moment. "It's not about Tanner. Not really. Chris, this is a horribly painful subject, I know. But...I'm wondering if I shouldn't have been deflecting some of the bombing cases all along -- let other teams handle it...do you...". Travis struggled for it and while Chris felt his stomach surge at what he knew his boss was getting at, he had to at least give Travis points for compassion. "Are the bombing cases more difficult for you than other cases?"

Studying the dark amber liquid in his glass, Chris took his time. He needed Travis to believe him even if no one else did. "It didn't even occur to me that there were similarities until Randall brought it up," he said after a moment and took a deep swallow from the glass. "I won't say it never has but...," he met Travis' gaze and found nothing but patience there, "...when Sarah and Adam were murdered," and there was venom still in the thought. Poison he'd never be rid of entirely. "That was...personal. Whoever it was wanted *me*. This...Hollinger wasn't personal. So, no. Usually, no. And not this time. I wanted him stopped though. Because he was a killer, because he was a terrorist -- because those people didn't deserve any of it." He finished his drink.

Travis sipped at his, quiet for long moments before nodding. "All right, then. I wish you'd said that in there."

"I might have if he'd *asked*," Chris said on a half snarl. "I thought tact came with the rank."

"Only at the AD level," Travis said with a half smile. "Go home, Chris. I agree you were baited and by one of our own. Who knew more about you than he should and used it. I don't much approve of that but he didn't get where he is by being soft or by missing details and it honestly never occurred to me -- it should have."

Maybe so. Chris wasn't sure it hadn't at some point. He knew Buck stuck close whenever they worked a bombing but he'd never really thought of why. And he hadn't lied: this was so far from the murder of his family he was still amazed Travis could see a connection, except on the most superficial of levels.

He got to his feet, feeling tired and drained and his head was killing him. "You know where to find me. I'm keeping the boys on the calls and the follow up."

Travis nodded. "It's three days. They may have something for you by then. Buck?"

Chris nodded. "Yeah. I'll tell him. Chances are he's still here. He knew how it would fall out."

"If he is, tell him I'll expect him in my office at 9 a.m. tomorrow."

Chris agreed and let himself out, Travis' attention already on the messages on his desk. The man would probably stay late and Chris was suddenly very glad he didn't have to. In fact, couldn't.

He was only moderately surprised to find that the rest of the team had waited as well, although a glance at the clock showed it to be a good deal earlier than he'd thought.

Buck took a look at him and shook his head. "Son, if you don't look like a hundred miles of bad road..."

Chris managed a half-hearted smile and realized he could finally take his jacket off. His tie followed as he made it as far as the edge of Nathan's desk and sat. Without crowding him the others got up, Ezra and Nathan swiveling around in their chairs. "I'm off for three. You stay on what you've got and keep Travis up to date on anything that you'd bring to me. You," he pinned Buck with a half glare, smiling a little. "Travis' office. 9 a.m."

"Now, Chris, don't'cha' think Josiah'd be better to take this round?" Buck asked, half teasing but there was seriousness to his tone.

"Nope. You deserve this bunch anyway..." Chris said, easing the tone a little and looked at all of them. JD was bouncing a bit, he had questions but he was really trying to be patient. "Review was rough," he admitted finally. "If they call you in..." They shouldn't but it didn't hurt to let them know there was a threat, however mild here. "Make sure you pay attention to what's being asked," he added. He wouldn't prep them -- the ethics of that so complicated, Chris knew his head would explode if he even tried to think beyond, "don't". "Just stay on what you have -- the threats and the follow up to Hollinger. I'm praying he was alone in this...because we really, really don't want to go through this again. Buck...my office," he said and got up, wincing. "I'll see you in three -- try not to piss anybody off, okay?" he added to the other four.

"Rough or brutal?" Buck asked the minute the door was closed.

"Both," Chris admitted. "I don't know what all Travis will say, Buck, but you let him handle the review. I'm thinking they are...Randall is after something but I don't know what or even it's us or something bigger."

Buck sat on the edge of his desk while Chris sorted through the files and casework Buck would need, checking his calendar to make sure Buck would be covered for any appointments he had.

"You going to tell me what happened?" Buck asked quietly, studying Chris with that look that reminded Chris of nothing so much as his own father. "Worse than what they went after Vin for?"

Rubbing his eyes, Chris shook his head. "Don't know. Commander Randall doesn't like the Acceptable Hostage Loss clause...which I understand. But we didn't lose the hostage and he's still digging deep and cutting hard. That and the bombing...nature of the perp,." Chris said and stared out his window. "Travis asked off the record," he added seeing only confusion on Buck's face. "If every time he assigned us a bombing case, I flashed on S...Sarah and Adam..." he took a breath, looking back out at the Denver skyline.

"Do you?" Buck asked after a moment, and Chris could see him in the reflection of the glass.

"Not this time..." Chris took another breath, fighting both sorrow and fatigue. "I never really did...I think I might, now," he said and saw Buck close his eyes. "I need you to keep your ears open for the next few days...anything. The review, the op..."

"Done. You're worried."

"Yeah, only I don't know what over. Or if I should be. Just pay attention...on the QT, Buck," Chris added, maybe unnecessarily.

Buck nodded.

"Thanks," Chris turned back to the desk and spent the next forty minutes going over what had to be gone over. He knew that suspended or not, if they found something, anything -- he'd hear about it, which wouldn't endear his team to anyone but him -- not even Travis, although he expected that Travis didn't think it would ever be otherwise.

And he got updates before he left, unofficial as all hell and only the things he needed, such as no further threats had come in, and that JD and Nathan already had an angle on where Hollinger had gotten the ancient dynamite. His team had seen the explosives report before he had.

Buck would have his hands full but he took what he needed and Chris took a few moments to gather up what files he thought he might want to look over, packing them into his briefcase. Suspended or not, he wasn't ready to let this go that easily. Packed and ready, he picked up the phone.

"Larabee residence," Vin answered and Chris smiled.

"Mr. Larabee is headed home," he said quietly, putting his back to the bullpen. "How're you doing?"

"Better," Vin said but Chris heard the hesitation. "How'd it go?"

"'Bout like yours. Three off. I lost my temper faster."

"Need to watch that, Larabee."

"So I've been told. Need anything?"

The hesitation was just a breath this time. "Just you. Stew's on. Beer's cold."

Chris could hear him smiling. "How's the company?"

Vin chuckled. "Passable. Been told even con-viv-ial from time to time."

"Spending time with Ezra again aren't you?"

"Furthering my education. Get off the phone, Chris. You'll get here faster."

"Gone," Chris said and hung up, smiling again. The pain in his head had eased only slightly, but he was glad that Vin seemed to have calmed some, gotten some perspective. Of course, he'd thought that earlier too -- yesterday. It might be fleeting and he wasn't really ready for it. Both of them strung tight would be more than he could deal with and he had one gratifying moment to realize that setting their reviews so far apart had been a good idea, however painful.

Good nights were called out all around, the others making all the signs of leaving soon as well, trying to keep it normal although Chris felt Josiah's eyes on him, and Nathan looked unhappy -- righteously so. Chris gave half a thought to sending a note to have Randall tangle with Nathan, and decided the Division Commander would be at a distinct disadvantage with Nathan's straight from the hip shooting. He knew JD would burst with questions as soon as he was out of sight and Ezra -- he caught the undercover specialist's eye as he punched the elevator button. He should have said 'thank you' earlier, suspecting that Ezra was at least in part responsible for Vin's better mood. Ezra only inclined his head and Chris grinned.

It faded by the time he got in the elevator and the doors closed, that much of an exchange triggering an entirely different line of thought and one he did his very best to avoid. It wasn't jealousy, really. Envy maybe, only he wasn't sure of what. He and Vin had been friends before they'd become lovers and nothing Vin had ever said or done had made Chris think his partner wanted it otherwise.

But there was a whole life and world Vin knew, had experienced, that Chris never had and likely never would. He suspected Ezra had and did when the mood struck him. He did his very best to shed the thought and the doubt. Better to face Randall's doubts than to show up in front of Vin wondering once more what they had gotten themselves into, whether this was fair to Vin...and knowing Vin would see that doubt even if Chris said nothing.

Vin half expected it, Chris admitted to himself, unlocking his truck and tossing his gear across the seat. He wasn't sure it was really fear on Vin's part, just that same pragmatism that had gotten him through so much in his life -- as Chris' idealism had managed to help him overcome obstacles other people would have balked at. Vin would never blame Chris if this fell apart.

He started the engine and then sat back, another chill up his spine and wondered if Randall knew...and if he did, what did he think. He picked apart what he recalled of Randall's exact wording -- none too easy since Chris had been livid at the time.

Had there been innuendo there he had missed? Had Vin ever disobeyed an order -- *in the field*. Why phrase it like that? In the office or where else?

"Jesus," he said softly and put the truck in gear, getting out of the parking lot before fitting the speaker of his cell phone into his ear and dialing Buck, then hanging up before Buck could answer. He pulled up to a stop light and gave it some serious thought.

The Bureau was still playing 'don't ask, don't tell'. The Ethics committee was still reworking the fraternization rules -- and maybe he was being overly suspicious. But not utterly unrealistic. Too well he remembered Vin's apartment when a few pea-brained assholes had taken it into their heads that they didn't want a faggot working among them -- even though they'd had nothing but rumor to work from. And had not much else still, but there were times when Chris knew either he or Vin or both had not been as circumspect as they could be.

He fingered his phone and then dialed, praying he hadn't misread any of what he thought he saw between Vin and Ezra.

"A surprise, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said, when he answered. "Did you forget something?"

"Maybe a little, Ezra. I need a favor. A personal one..."

There was silence for a long moment. "Hold on...." Ezra said and Chris could hear the bell chimes of the elevator and other voices. "All right," Ezra said and his voice sounded more hollow -- in the parking garage, no doubt. "I'm assuming you want this to be less than public knowledge -- or you would have called Buck," Ezra said and Chris didn't know if it was an insult to him or Buck or if it was Ezra being Ezra. He went for the latter explanation for the moment, deciding that regardless, both he and Buck probably deserved it. Or would at some point.

"Buck's standing in my shoes right now, Ezra, and he can't do what I need," Chris said.

"So, not so personal," Ezra said and Chris could hear the chirp of an alarm and the door of a car open. The hollow sound was gone. "A bit of both business and personal."

"Something like. I need you to ...." Chris chewed over the words. "I need to know if any of the rumors about Vin and me have made it out of our division...and if so, how far..."

"And how high up?" Ezra said, guessing really, with that uncanny instinct for the angle of anything. If he'd been any better with a rifle, he could have angled for Vin's slot.

"If it's pertinent," Chris said. "I don't know if I'm riding a hunch or... paranoia."

"I'd trust the former first, Mr. Larabee. Have, in fact, on many occasions. And if I find evidence..."

"Take it to Travis," Chris said immediately.

"Rather than to you?"

"I want to know but...I've been known to push a little hard at a times, Ezra," Chris said and shook his head when Ezra chuckled.

"You, sir? Surely such aspersions on your character are not to be tolerated?"

"Standish..." Chris warned but he couldn't help but grin. There were times when Ezra's cavalier attitude made Chris no-holds-barred insane, other times when he really wanted to mop the floor with him, but when he was honest, he admired the man. Admired his ability to do his job extremely well and maintain a healthy distance between what he did and who he was. He should be half so good at it.

"Ear to the ground, Mr. Larabee. I'll see what I can find out. You do realize that by merely introducing the hypothesis, you may well be tipping the scales in a direction you really don't want them to fall, don't you?"

"Reasonable risk," Chris said. "If I'm going to get busted I'd rather see it coming. Wouldn't you?"

"Point made," Ezra said. "I can probably make a few calls tonight. Discreetly, of course."

"I have no doubt of that," Chris said and almost rang off. "Ezra, are you all right with this?"

The tone change was obvious, softer, even apologetic. "I have vested interest in this team, Mr. Larabee. I am perfectly all right with this...on every level," he added.

"All right, then. Thanks, Ezra."

"Good night, Mr. Larabee. Give my best to Vin."

Ezra hung up first and Chris held the phone for a moment before shutting it off and pulling the ear-piece out.

The drive didn't help his head any: the lights from oncoming traffic making him almost reach for his sunglasses until he reached the turnoff and then only had to deal with his own headlights. It didn't help that he was feeling the two glasses of bourbon and he rolled the window down, despite the frigid air. The last thing he needed was to reclaim the reputation as a drunk he'd gained after losing Sarah and Adam.

A little anger roused at the idea that Randall had deliberately stirred up a grief Chris was finally learning to deal with. Not set aside -- he didn't actually think it was possible. The loss was as sharp as it had ever been.

And he still wanted their killer. He wasn't likely to get that satisfaction -- the trail had been cold before they started. Any longer, he didn't know what he was angrier at -- the gross unfairness of their deaths when it should have been him, or the fact that he'd never managed to even get close to avenging them. It would be vengeance too, if he ever got the chance. Old Testament, bible thumping, fire and brimstone, wrath of God vengeance, given half a chance. He'd wanted that then and still did, with a fury that scared him almost as much as it invigorated him: sent his blood pumping and his nerves singing. Given the chance, even the threat of life imprisonment wouldn't be enough to stop him. Nothing or no one...

Jesus, he needed Vin badly. He needed something solid and real, something not floundering in suspicion or anger.

The track to his ranch came up and he made the sharp right, feeling the truck slip a little from the gravel onto the mud. He yanked it back, taking a deep breath and he slowed the vehicle, then stopped it entirely, put it in park and gripped the steering wheel.

He sat there and forced himself to breathe deeply while he stared into the darkness ahead, only barely able to see the lights on his porch in between the sparse cover of winter bare trees and evergreens.

He'd thought that anger buried more deeply, but there it was, ripped open again and bleeding, no, gushing fury and what was he thinking? Randall's insinuations came back and struck home as they hadn't in the review or even talking to Travis.

No one.

Which would leave Vin exactly where in the Larabee grand plan of things as they should be? Not that it was likely to happen but as with so many other things, Chris wasn't sure he'd ever really be able to make the connection between what Vin was to him and what he was to the younger man. The hard truth was that Vin would be there at his side if he ever found a way to bring the killers down. He'd look the other way if justice didn't look like a likely outcome, as would Buck. The pair of them would kill for him, die for him and Buck especially, would be the wolf on the wounded deer given the opportunity. He hadn't lost a wife or son but he damn well had come close to losing his entire family. Chris wouldn't begrudge his oldest friend his need for justice or vengeance either.

And Vin...Vin would do it because that would be the quickest way to ease Chris' pain. Hell, he would have killed an innocent man on Chris' say so -- a guilty one wouldn't make him blink twice.

Was that what Randall had been driving at, what he'd seen, maybe underneath every justifiable rationale Chris could come up with? He had a hard time believing it. He didn't know Randall except by rep and Randall didn't know him by anything more than reputation either. God knew his reputation changed with the teller of the tale. Admiration from some of his colleagues was a given but so was the jealousy and the envy -- and not just from within the ATF. He'd butted heads with the supervisors and directors and agents of other agencies often enough to know he wasn't on the most favored son list of a lot of them.

A moving light caught his attention and he looked up, watching as Vin came carefully into the pool of light cast by his headlights, a large hand-held spotlight in his hand that he aimed at the ground once he recognized the truck -- but he still moved cautiously. His jeans and boots and the down-filled sleeveless parka gained color as he neared, rifle held over one shoulder.

"Chris?" he called and looked around, reaching out to touch the truck hood. "Stall out?" he asked.

"No. I just..." Lost sight of what was important, Chris thought, seeing the wariness in Vin's face turn to concern.

"You okay?" He was still cautious and checked the truck bed and the cab before he turned the flashlight off and reached inside to touch Chris' shoulder. "Jesus, Larabee, you're freezing," he said softly and Chris realized he was cold. He'd taken his jacket off, and while he'd been driving, the truck heater had been enough, even with the window open, but sitting here had left him chilled. "Move over," Vin said, voice terse as he opened the door and put the safety back on the rifle before sliding it onto the back seat. He rolled the window up and slid onto the seat to take the wheel. Vin pushed the heater to maximum and put the truck in gear.

It took only a couple of minutes to reach the house, Chris finally realizing how long he'd been sitting at the end of the drive. He pulled his jacket on and gathered his briefcase, glad Vin wasn't asking questions because he had no idea what he'd say.

_ /*/Gee, Vin sorry. Was thinking about what I'd do if I ever got the chance to bring in the bastard who killed my wife and child -- and you didn't come up once. I'd leave you so high and dry your hair would bleach white./*/_

Vin had locked the house before leaving, a level of caution Chris would never have thought of, but it took him only a moment to get Chris inside and take his briefcase from him. "Had a couple on the way home?" Vin asked quietly, taking the parka off and hanging it up.

The house was warm, warmer than Chris usually kept it but it felt good, seeping into his skin and bones through the cool fabric of his shirt. He took the jacket off. "No. Before I left...Travis," Chris finally found words. He could answer questions. Simple ones.

"Want another?"

"Yes," Chris said but he got it for himself, preferring his own scotch to Travis' bourbon. He managed to only sip it, rather than downing it and turned around because he knew Vin was watching him.

He was. He sat on the near end of the sofa, on the arm, braced on the back with one arm. His boots were dark from the wetness of the melted snow, eyes darker as he seemed to be trying to figure out what was wrong without actually having to ask. Or maybe he just wanted to fix it.

Chris decided to go for the latter, finishing his drink in one fast, burning swallow and moving to Vin, oddly reassured when the other man didn't flinch, only lifted his head.

Something real. It was that. Vin had had at least one beer. Chris could taste it, smell it on his lips. He could smell the outside air on him too, fresh and cold, Vin's hair still cool to his touch but his skin was warm, his mouth molten and wet, molding easily to Chris', that clever tongue inviting him deeper and Chris took the invitation almost desperately.

His headache didn't ease off at all. If anything, the pounding blood increased until he could feel it, hear it. If his eyes were open, he'd be blinded by it. Cool fingers soothed the skin at his temples, then along his cheeks, back up to card through his hair, Vin trying to match Chris' greed with his own generosity. His tongue tangled with Chris': soft caresses meeting the harsh jabs of Chris' own, sucking softly when Chris wanted to bite and bruise. The thick curls tangled around Chris' fingers, and he dug in harder, pulling Vin's head back. Vin's fingers curled into his shirt front then spread, not pushing Chris back but bracing him, them, and then tore his mouth away.

Chris opened his eyes and realized what kind of grip he'd had on his lover's hair, immediately easing back. Vin's mouth was wet, lips reddened and full, cheeks dully scarlet and eyes dark with an odd mix of concern and desire. His fingers closed on Chris' shirt again, gathering the fabric tightly until it rubbed almost painfully across Chris' nipples. Vin pushed up and back, coming to his feet and not letting go.

"What do you need?" Vin asked. Not, what's wrong? What were you doing parked at the end of the driveway? What happened?

It should have been an easy answer. 'You', would have been all of it.

"Something real..." was the best Chris could come up with but it was enough. Enough for Vin to nod, just slightly, and once more thread his fingers through Chris' hair to pull him close, his other hand pulled at the buttons on Chris' shirt. His fingers danced lightly over exposed skin and Vin's clever, clever mouth followed the same path.

Chris found himself on the sofa, barely helping, only able to dig his fingers into that hair again only not so tightly, allowing Vin movement enough to open his shirt and then his slacks. Chris lifted his hips, only barely recognizing the fact that he still had his shoes on and his socks and that Vin was still entirely dressed.

He hadn't even realized he was hard until Vin touched him, covered him with his hand and then his mouth, kneeling on the floor in a position that was awkward and Chris tried to move, spread his legs wider only to be trapped by his own pants.

Then it didn't matter because whatever the obstacle, Vin seemed more than able to overcome it. His hair brushed along Chris' thighs and belly, mouth meeting hand on Chris' dick with an irregular rhythm that sent enough sensation through Chris' veins to overcome his headache. Chris bucked and thrust to meet that mouth, trying not to force Vin's head down and both thrilled and appalled at the sight of his lover's head bobbing up and down over his crotch. "Christ, Vin," he murmured then groaned, pushing up again and holding Vin, wanting to fuck that talented mouth even knowing that his lover was much better when left to his own devices. There was a sound, one that made Chris take notice and he released his hold immediately, knowing choking when he heard it.

"Vin...jeez, I'm sorry--" Chris said and found Vin's fingers over his mouth, the ache at his groin only briefly falling to the background.

Vin took a breath and swallowed. "Shut up...It's okay," he said and meant it. He pushed Chris back and then reached for Chris' shoes and then his pants, clearing them of Chris' legs and taking a few seconds to pull off his own boots. "Got something you need to get rid of, cowboy," he said with a soft, wicked smile, peeling off his own jeans and shirts before putting one knee in between Chris' legs and bending low again.

Chris almost came off the couch. He reached again and found his hand gripped tightly, then more easily, Vin's fingers laced through his. His other hand gripped the back of the couch, determined not to repeat his mistake. Not that he was able to think clearly. He was hard as a rock and so close he squirmed with the pleasure of it, only to curse when Vin stopped.

But only to change position. Vin straddled him, held him and settled, pushed his hair off his face and Chris could only stare at the brazenness of it, of watching Vin settle on his hard cock. Vin held himself on his knees, thigh muscles taut and hard, gripping the back of the sofa as he angled his body, guiding Chris inside himself with a light touch and a sudden sharp intake of breath as his body was breached. He breathed out, body opening and relaxing around Chris like a well-worn glove, taking Chris in his ass with a few short pants for breath and letting his head fall back as he settled deeper when Chris pushed up. He wanted to pull Vin down, grip that slim body and hold it tight to his cock, hold him steady while he sought deeper contact and with a half groan, half growl, realized he could. A grunt escaped Vin as Chris jerked his hips upward into the tight ass, but he grinned at Chris. "Have at it, Larabee. Can't choke me this way, no matter how much it feels like sometimes..." the words were teasing enough but Vin moistened his lips as he moved, they moved, the blue of his eyes almost disappearing under the wide dilation of desire.

The words alone were enough to make Chris move again, half challenge and half tease and now he could grab and hold on; to Vin's hip, his lower back. Chris was able to feel every ripple of muscle, every tightening of Vin's ass or his legs. The fit was so tight and nearly but not quite dry, with nothing but Chris' own semen and Vin's spit easing the passage.

Then Vin leaned forward as Chris found a rhythm and a force, leverage enough, pushing hard enough to drive a grunt from Vin, then from himself when the tight ass slid around him again, held him when he tried to pull back and fought him when he pushed in.

"That's it...yeah," Vin said softly, rocking them together and Chris couldn't have looked away if he tried. His body strained for and finally found just the right amount of friction, pressure and anticipation to push him over, back tensing as he used every bit of energy to empty himself into the tight warmth until there was nothing left.

Vin rocked a little more, the movement sending little aftershocks of pleasure through Chris until he shuddered and gripped Vin's hips to still him.

Vin leaned forward, reaching out to brace himself on the arm of the sofa, one hand stroking along Chris' throat until he breathed a little easier. Vin lifted up then, separating them with a moist sound and a wash of cooler air across Chris' flesh that made him take a deeper breath. One that he surrendered to Vin's mouth a few seconds later, feeling his muscles relax and unbind under his lover's mouth and hands. "Stay," Vin said after a few moments, resting a hand on his chest and Chris could only agree, even when Vin moved completely away, the warmth of his body replaced by the soft cotton throw from the end of the sofa.

Vin moved quickly and quietly, gathering up clothes and kicking shoes and boots out of the traffic area, Chris watching him and catching his breath at the sight of his release glistening on the inside of one tanned thigh. Before Chris could stop him, he had moved away. Chris closed his eyes since he couldn't see Vin anyway. The laundry room door was opened and closed and the tap in the kitchen turned on and allowed to run for a few moments before it was shut off. Then Vin was back, sitting on the edge of the sofa, next to Chris' hip. He lifted the blanket to wipe him off with a warm, wet towel.

Chris snaked his arm out, around one thigh and Vin leaned in. "Should take care of you...." he said, hand drifting up to Vin's semi hard cock. He hadn't come. Chris wasn't even sure he'd been hard.

"You do. When it counts. You want food or sleep or--? It's still early. We could get really drunk," Vin suggested and Chris moved his hand from Vin's thigh to one sharp-planed cheek.

"You didn't come," Chris said and it felt more important than it probably was. Too easy to be selfish where Vin was concerned. There were times when he wished Vin would demand more of him, give him some clue.

"You'll make it up to me. Not now. Food or bed?"

Chris supposed it was a demand of sorts. They would have to work on it. He couldn't remember when he'd eaten and wondered if that were partly why his head ached so. Not so much now, but returning. "I should probably eat," he said. "Vin...I'm ...really long day," he said finally.

Vin nodded. "Yeah. It has been. It can all wait until tomorrow, right?" he asked, smiling a little when Chris nodded. "Sit tight."

"That would be you," Chris said, trying for some levity and was rewarded by Vin's slow smile.

"You'd be the one to know. Be right back," he said and was gone again.

Chris managed to sit up some, wrapping the blanket around his legs. When Vin returned, he had on a fresh pair of jeans but no shirt, with beers and bowls of stew and thick bread for both of them. The coffee table made as good a sideboard as anything and he moved Chris' legs so they were across his lap as he sat down.

Food did help, or the sex had...or the Tylenol. Chris didn't know or care. He remembered setting the bowl aside, drinking half a beer and watching disinterestedly when Vin turned the television on, far more interested in Tanner's profile until he realized Vin was shaking him awake. "Come on, cowboy. Bed is better for both of us."

Chris blinked and struggled to find the clock, found his watch instead and was surprised to see it was nearly eleven o'clock. Vin had already turned the lights off, cleared their dishes and checked the locks. He kept the blanket all the way to the bedroom and found the bed already warmed.

It was a cruel irony that the minute he dropped the blanket and lay down, that he would wake up. He waited for Vin to strip down and get in bed.

"What?" Vin asked, finding Chris' eyes watching him as he settled.

"Ever tell you how glad I am you sometimes question my orders?" Chris said, rolling to his side.

"Uh, no...." Vin said doing the same so they faced each other. "I think I'm usually getting cussed out for it."

"Yeah. Never believe me, Vin. Not about that..."

"Okay. This about the review?"

"Kind of, but...not really. I need you for a lot of things; here and there," Chris said.

Vin studied him for a long moment and then nodded. "I'll remember," he said and Chris nodded as well. Fatigue, if not sleepiness, claimed him once more. He rolled to his back and waited, arm outstretched until Vin settled next to him and Chris curved his arm around the broad shoulders.

He hoped he'd sent Ezra on a wild goose chase. He hoped Randall was looking to get the clause tossed. He prayed he could fall asleep and deal with it all tomorrow or in three days. He prayed he'd never give the man in his arms, who was falling rapidly toward sleep, a reason to be disappointed in him.

No blinding flash of assurance came to him for any of them and even his sleep was fractured as his subconscious finally took over and sent him disturbing dreams of churches and dark driveways and standing alone while his world exploded in front of him. Again.

##  ~Chapter Four~

** Tuesday, 4:23 a.m., Larabee Ranch**

It was a sudden jerking motion from Chris that woke Vin, alertness coming fast enough for him to catch the flailing arm before it hit him in the face. "Chris," he said in a normal tone, pinning the arm to the bed and blinking until his eyes could focus, checking for the tell tale shine that would show the reflection of the barn light through the window in Chris' open eyes. It wasn't there, and the tense muscles under his hand relaxed. Chris took a deeper breath and Vin let him go, watching. It wasn't even four a.m. yet, and Vin relaxed on his side.

It took less than fifteen minutes for whatever nightmare Chris was having to claim him again; Vin was never sure if he should try to ease Chris from them before they became too intense or let him work through it on his own. He always figured nightmares or even intense dreams had a reason for being other than the current pop-psych explanation. His grandfather had thought so, Vin's own childhood nightmares allowed to run their course unless he woke up crying or screaming, then his grandfather would be there, sitting on the edge of the small bed.

There was Indian blood in them from somewhere, Cherokee most likely, although Earl Tanner had never done much more than tell his grandson it was there. Never claimed any part of that heritage for himself or for Vin, but he'd been an odd man -- hunting and tracking in a land that offered little in the way of survival unless subsistence was all you wanted. Drank alcohol hardly ever and seemed to know when rain would come, or even dust storms, tightening shutters and laying in water in the small cabin while skies were still blue and clear then had Vin help him put blankets and sheets up over the windows. They'd wait them out and it was during those infrequent times of being forced inside for days sometimes, that Earl Tanner would talk. Or listen.

And when the wind screaming around their house would send dust up between the floorboards, Vin would have nightmares and wake up crying and coughing, dust in his mouth and on his blankets and Earl would ask about them. Tell him what he thought about the less scary ones. "That's your other self talking to you," he'd say. "The one no one but you can hear, can know about. That's the self that's you -- not the one that folks see. You listen to that one, even when it don't make sense. 'Specially then...powerful messages are hard to understand."

It wasn't until much later in his life that Vin had actually started to understand what his grandfather meant -- not just conscience, although that was part of it. The 'talking' was more a feeling, Vin's instincts honed to pay attention to what was going on inside himself before he'd ever realized he had instincts.

That other self didn't talk to him much in regards to Chris, or if it did, it was one of those messages that didn't make sense at all, no matter how Vin twisted it around to get some use of it. From the start, even underneath the initial burst of lust and appreciation on seeing Chris for the first time -- which had made perfect sense -- it had been there. Knowing someone, something about someone as well as Vin knew the back of his own hand, even if he didn't know how many freckles or hairs or muscles and veins occupied that hand, he knew his own, what was part of himself.

It sounded and felt so crazy that he'd never said, even knowing Chris felt it too -- way too airy-fairy for anyone but maybe Josiah, or maybe JD's girlfriend Casey who Vin had met all of twice but he recognized an old soul when he met one.

Chris' muscles were tightening again, breath shallowing out, head moving restlessly on his pillow, even his legs tensed as if to run, only Vin didn't know if it were to flee from something or rush toward something else. Whatever had happened during the review, during the day, that same thing that had driven Chris to seek relief in sex rather than making love: it was riding Chris hard. Vin knew only a half second before his lover erupted into something that couldn't be anything but fighting for his life, shifting to duck and catch, never so surprised at how very strong Chris was as when he didn't know what he was doing.

"Chris!" his voice was sharp and clear, hard enough to make the back of his throat hurt. It took most of his weight to pin Chris' left arm to the bed and he managed a grip on the right, not sure if restraining the other man was actually the best response. Chris bucked upward with a sound halfway between a moan and scream, in pain but not physically and Vin held on, wishing he could turn on a light -- save he wasn't sure he wanted to see the expression on Chris' face any more clearly than he was. Chris' knee caught him solidly in the back and Vin grunted and leaned forward. "Chris...Wake up...It's all right!"

A twist of the muscular body and Vin swore when the fingers of Chris' left hand dug into the muscles of his thigh. "Dammit, Chris! Wake up," he said, pushing down hard and then letting go. The sudden release of tension was shock enough apparently and suddenly there was light being reflected from the wide open green eyes. It still took Chris a moment to realize whatever he had been seeing -- wasn't. His grip on Vin's flesh tightened then eased, all the air rushing from his lungs as if he'd been punched.

Certain Chris was awake if only marginally aware of his surroundings, Vin leaned across him to turn on the light, Chris blinking suddenly when Vin's body shifted back, exposing his face to the glare and Chris covered his eyes with his hand until they could adjust.

Rubbing his thigh, Vin could only wait for Chris to pull his hand away, cognizant and awake. "Bad one, cowboy," he said when Chris finally focused on his face.

Chris swallowed and then pushed up to sitting and swung his legs out of the bed, the tension still obvious in every line and movement. "Yeah," he said roughly and glanced back. "Thanks," was all he said and then was up on unsteady legs, going to the bathroom and closing the door.

Vin heard the water start up in the sink and lay back down, rolling to his back. A glance at his thigh and he frowned. He'd have a bruise. Sighing softly at the closed door, he got up again and pulled on the jeans he'd left beside the bed. He honestly didn't know if Chris would want to talk or not but he sure as hell wasn't getting back to sleep any time soon. He'd have been up in a little over an hour anyway and he had no place in particular to be.

The coffee left in the pot was cold but Vin heated up a cup for himself in the microwave while he made fresh, then found a shirt. Heat or no, the house had chilled considerably and would grow colder before dawn broke. Pulling on a long-sleeved heavy flannel, he glanced across the room but the bathroom door was still closed and he could hear the shower going now.

Taking his warmed up coffee with him, he opened the vertical blinds off the back bay window. What snow remained was more ice than snow any longer, sparkling hard and white from the barn light. It would melt with the sunrise, or most of it, leaving the yard and corral a muddy mess. There was soured straw near the doors and Vin gave serious thought to spreading it in the corral and up to the house before the ice had time to melt.

"Not going back to bed?" Chris asked and Vin turned to look at him. He was in sweats only, hair still wet and dark, slicked back off his head.

"Awake now," Vin said. "Coffee should be ready soon, if you want."

Chris nodded and hesitated, caught between doorway and Vin. "You want to know?"

Holding that gaze for a long moment, Vin wasn't sure he did. "If'n you want to tell it. If you don't, don't. Nightmare, Chris. Not the first and not the last, you think?"

He got a half smile. "No, probably not. Coffee would be...good."

"Whiskey better?" Vin asked but Chris seemed so uncertain and almost embarrassed. "Got no place to be. Either of us."

"Point," Chris admitted but went for the coffee anyway and returned, looking less embarrassed, joining Vin to survey the back yard and the slow roll of the back paddock to the tree line. Even with the barn light, there were stars to be seen.

"I think it was the ...bombing," he said softly, uncertainly, the actual nightmare apparently fading even as he spoke -- Vin watched him try to hold onto it. "The...Sarah...Adam...the car...truck..." he took a breath and sipped his coffee. "Came up in the review."

Vin frowned at him and leaned against the window. The glass was cold and he shifted to put his back to the frame. "Why would it? Did you--"

"No. Jay Randall did," Chris said flatly.

"Son of a bitch," Vin said softly. "Why?"

"Wondered if I was on a personal crusade to rid the country of bombers."

"Somebody should be," Vin said, but it was only to see the quirk of Chris' lips. He turned the accusation over in his mind, unable to find the connection. "Why would he think that? Not the same thing at all..." he said but glanced at Chris to see if his lover was seeing more to it than he was. Or was trying to, which would explain the nightmare but not the rest of Chris' anger or his near desperation earlier.

Chris only shrugged. "I can't see it...or I didn't. Too close, I guess. It isn't the same...I don't think so," he said but he didn't sound any too certain about it.

Vin leaned his head back and closed his eyes, notching his own angry first reaction back as far as he could manage. "I'd like to know Randall's secret for hitting all the right buttons. Bet he's hell in an interrogation." He opened his eyes to look at Chris. "Good thing he's on our side."

"I'm not feeling too sure of that at the moment." Chris fingered his cup, taking another sip.

"Chris..." Vin said with a small snort of exasperation. "You know...I'd really rather hear it from you. Don't make me call Buck."

"He doesn't know anything," Chris said, flashing a look of annoyance at Vin.

Vin gave him a broad smile. "He will. 'N he'll have Alise in transcription giving him chapter and verse before lunchtime tomorrow."

"Wondered who he was pumping for information," Chris said with a faint smile, then tossed his head toward the living room. Vin took the hint and the corner of the sofa, angled against the arm and back and let Chris take center. The whole interview was recounted up to the point Chris left Travis' office. "Travis said he'd do some checking, see if Randall has a grudge."

Hearing it second hand didn't seem to matter to the level of Vin's anger. He'd been pissed enough at Randall for getting to him, for letting his own doubts color his ability to at least rationalize his actions -- and his professional judgment. Now he wondered if Randall hadn't been angling for Chris all along. "You don't know him though, do ya?" Vin asked.

"Not really. I've met him a couple of times -- conferences," Chris said setting down his now empty cup of coffee and leaning back into the sofa's soft, giving leather. "Travis isn't sure, but I think he's gunning for us."

Vin took a couple of deep breaths and kept a tight leash on his anger. He was tight and tense, unable to find a single good reason Randall would have pushed Chris on this. Not so much because he saw, or thought he saw, a connection between the murder of Chris' family, but in handling it so badly. He stretched out his legs and laid them across Chris' lap, crossing his ankles and leaning back to stare at the wood beams of the ceiling, closing his eyes when Chris' hand rubbed along the outside of his calf.

Vin hadn't missed the questioning that had led Randall back to his decision to take the shot, and try as he might, he couldn't see the connection between trying to make Chris look like a vigilante and Vin making a bad call. If it was a grudge, it did sound personal.

Except that Chris didn't know him and Vin certainly didn't, but he'd been pretty thorough for a man who'd only gotten a call to serve on the review panel the day before. Vin's eyes snapped open and he looked at Chris, not surprised to find the green eyes fixed on him.

Chris squeezed his leg again.

"He's a division commander," Vin said.

"Doesn't mean he doesn't have opinions."

"You meant gunning for *us*," Vin said, just to be sure he understood. He hoped Chris would tell him no. He should be so lucky.

"I don't know for sure, but I can't think of anything else that makes any sense. Not with the way he's going about it..."

"Shit," Vin hissed out softly.

"He's got nothing, Vin. It was a good call -- for a bad call," Chris said tiredly and leaned back. "Neither Travis nor McCall are going to let his personal agenda undercut their teams. If that's what this is. We might be wrong."

"Yeah, and that priest might be dead now," Vin said jerking his legs up and around to get to his feet. "But he's not."

"Hey...hey!" Chris said, almost sharply on the second call before Vin could get too far -- although Vin had no idea where he was going. "It's not going to happen like that, Vin. We can't -- can *not* -- overreact to this. We're guessing."

"Yeah, we are, but it should tell you something that it came to mind," he snapped out and turned away. Looking out the window toward the barn. May as well lay out the hay now, before the ice turned the yard to slush.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Chris' eyes had narrowed and he was on his feet as well.

"You're worried about it -- us," Vin said steadily. "Either way. Because if it's not this, us, then he's trying to make one or the other or both of us look incompetent or dangerous..." It didn't help that he was dangerous. Chris was too, but Vin was pretty sure Chris knew where the lines were drawn. Vin couldn't be sure any longer.

"Or he's trying to make a point about on the Hostage Loss issue," Chris said reasonably.

"On a case where we didn't lose one?" Vin shot back. "Order or no order, shot or no shot -- they all walked out for the most part. We made the Bureau look *good*, Chris. You aren't that stupid and neither am I."

It took only a few seconds for what Vin had said to make an impact on Chris.

Vin looked away, knowing Chris would fight it, fight to keep them both on the team, on the job and no longer sure he wanted that. Even if it all came out all right.

"We still don't know."

"Then maybe we should damn well ask him," Vin said and headed toward the back of the house.

"I won't let them use us as an example of anything, Vin. I won't."

Vin stopped, his back to Chris and used both hands to rub his face. He should tell Chris not to bother, to not worry -- it probably wouldn't be an issue. But then he'd have to tell him why and his resolve to keep this off Chris' plate was crumbling fast. "I'm going back to bed," he said at last, heading toward the bedroom.

"Vin..."

Vin didn't stop, stripping off his shirt and jeans before peeling the blankets back. Chris showed up in the door way and he rolled over.

"Don't do this again, Tanner."

"Do what?" Vin asked and rolled across the bed to turn off the light. Chris hit the overhead.

"Shut me out."

"I was trying to get you to shut up."

"Tough shit," Chris said and came to sit on the side of the bed. "Are you pissed off at me or just pissed off in general?"

"In general, but it could change," Vin warned, then shifted when Chris braced his arms on either side of Vin's waist.

Chris studied him until Vin felt his face flush and redirected his gaze to the ceiling, instead of the green eyes watching him so intently. He flinched a little when Chris moved his left arm closer, so his wrist and forearm were pressed to Vin's side. Chris shifted his weight to lift his other hand to Vin's face then along his throat and shoulder. "This is more than Randall," Chris said.

"Randall's enough," Vin said and reached down to grab Chris' hand before he could trace a line across his chest. "He's got no right throwing your family up at you like that," he said, meaning it, angry on so many levels he couldn't keep track of them all, but it was a lot easier to be angry for Chris than at him.

Chris dropped his gaze and nodded. "No. Not them... and not *you* either, Vin," he said carefully, meeting Vin's eyes once more. "You aren't the only one who is pissed off. But I'd rather be pissed off at him."

Vin swallowed, not sure he was able to do this, to hear this. At any other time, hearing that Chris thought of him as family would have meant a lot more, settled deep and warm with that casual acknowledgement that Chris felt as deeply for him as he did Chris. Just, not now. But if he didn't do something, say something, Chris would think it was his fault. "Know that," he said finally, hand tightening on Chris'. "I'm not...shit...Chris, I don't know what's got me pissed off more, but I'd sure as hell understand Randall having a problem with you and me than anything else on the table right now. Not like it, but...been there."

"I know...and I'm only starting to see it. But it can't be the only thing I see. I'm not...I don't understand it and I'm not planning on letting Jay Randall railroad us if that is his deal. Travis won't either. You aren't alone in this, Vin. Not this time."

"Might be better if I was," Vin said softly and felt Chris' hand tighten on his.

"You don't mean that."

Vin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "No. I don't, not that way," he said and it was his turn to reach up and touch, reassure. "Not ready for this ride to be over, cowboy," he offered with a half smile, smoothing Chris' hair back where it was drying over his forehead in a spiky pattern. "Just not sure we're gonna be taking the trail we hoped."

Nothing but confusion showed on Chris' face and Vin fought to find the best way to say it. "Spent most of yesterday and today...just thinking. Sometimes thinking about beating the shit out of Commander Randall...but mostly...you blame yourself for what happened to your wife and son..." It wasn't a question and Vin wished he could take back the words at the flash of pain he saw on Chris' face. He hadn't reopened those wounds though. "Cause of what you do, who you are...made you a target. Them."

Chris' body tensed, but he didn't stop Vin from speaking. Sarah and Adam weren't something they talked about very often, or Chris wouldn't even when Vin tried to make sure Chris knew he didn't mind if he did. They'd been a huge, wonderful part of Chris' life, something Chris forgot too often on thinking of how they'd died. Vin didn't let him dwell on it though.

"Been thinking on what I do...not much liking what I'm seeing."

Chris didn't say anything for more than a minute, thumb stroking over the back of Vin's hand. "It's not all you do, Vin. This is about Barrett, right?" he asked and Vin nodded. Chris sighed. "You're a hell of an investigator, Vin. Good field super -- you know your shit."

"I don't need my annual review, Larabee," Vin said with another half grin. "Still working on it in m'head. But you and I both know if I hadn't been so good with that damn rifle, you'd'a never looked twice at some no count Federal Marshal on a bust with four agencies and twenty guys."

Chris couldn't deny it and didn't try. "Seems Jay Randall stirred up a lot more than even he meant to, I think."

"Maybe...maybe this needed to be stirred up and don't think that don't piss me off too," Vin said. "I don't have a problem with killing, Chris...and I'm ...it's getting too easy," Vin said finally. He couldn't look at Chris, listening to that other self, feeling the admission settle and take hold, coming home as truth under Chris' gaze as it hadn't in two days of worrying about it.

"I don't believe that, Vin," Chris said and caught his face, forcing Vin to look at him. "You've been tearing yourself up for two days over a man you *didn't* kill, but might have. Nothing about this has been easy on you. Maybe this is the one to let you know you're doing okay. The life you saved...lives, Vin. Including mine."

"Keep telling myself that in m'head..." Vin said. "Guess I'm having a little trouble getting what I know to hook up with what I think," he said, pulling back any further words. He heard the frustrated growl in Chris' throat, saw the green eyes flash with annoyance. "I ain't done thinking..." he said quickly, wishing he'd said nothing. He should have gone with his first plan. This wasn't anything Chris could fix or should have to -- as much as Vin wanted him to.

"Jesus, Vin..." Chris said, anger fading and he lay his hand on the center of Vin's chest, pressing lightly. "That gun in your hands is not who you are any more than mine is. It's a tool."

Closing his eyes, Vin caught Chris' hands, folding his fingers around the broad palm and squeezing. He hadn't lied, he wasn't done thinking but he was very much afraid the path of his thoughts would be painful for both of them. Not irrevocable, or even leave permanent damage in their wake, but painful. He opened his eyes. "Know that too...but so am I, Chris. Guess a hammer never really gets to decide if that's what it wants to be when it grows up...I never meant to grow up to be a killer."

"You aren't--"

"Chris," Vin said it softly, not flinching or dodging the pain and anger he saw in Chris' face, in his eyes. He'd never meant to make this man hurt for him. "I've been doing this...one way or another, my whole adult life. Never aim a gun at something unless you mean to shoot it...kill it. Don't matter if it's a squirrel or a man, and I never have without knowing why I was pulling the trigger. And I knew why this time...and I pulled the trigger."

"You missed."

"Yeah, I did. But I still pulled the trigger. I was going to kill an innocent man and would have. Now, you tell me, if'n you know, how that makes me different from the man I did kill?"

"You were trying to save lives."

"Not that priest's life."

"I told you to," Chris said, sounding a little desperate and Vin felt the hard knot in his chest ease a little and he smiled up at Chris.

"And how of'n do I do what you tell me to jus' 'cause you tell me to?"

Chris' eyes searched his face and Vin squeezed his hand again, bending his other arm to put it under his head. "I'm still thinkin', pard. And it really ain't got nothing to do with the review."

"I wish I had an answer for you, Vin."

"So do I," Vin said softly. "But it's not for you to answer, and I...I need you to understand that."

The stubborn set came to Chris' face and Vin waited, wondering if he'd asked too much. Maybe not, as the tense line of Chris' jaw eased a bit and he bent low. "The difference is...this. Right now. But...I understand. Just...don't forget to tell me what you decide. When you decide."

"Deal," Vin said and felt the rest of the pressure ease inside of him. Not the doubt or the fear, but it was easier, knowing that Chris was willing to wait.

"Just remember, I'm not the most patient of guys," Chris warned, and Vin chuckled at that.

"I think I had that part figured out a while back," he said and lifted his head to capture Chris' mouth, barely brushing lips, a light pass of his tongue. "We got three days to sort it all out..."

"Maybe longer," Chris reminded him.

"Maybe."

Pressing his forehead lightly to Vin's, Chris rubbed his hand across the firm skin of Vin's belly. "Too late to go back to bed."

Vin grinned and moved his hand. He tugged on the arm that supported Chris' weight and pulled the blond off balance so that he rolled to his back with a soft "oompf". "Depends on what you use the bed for," Vin said, needing to break the mood, needing even more to remind himself what was important -- and it wasn't the damn job. Not this time.

Chris smiled up at him. "Got something in mind, Tanner?"

"Well, you did say you'd make it up to me," Vin said, pressing his body closer to Chris' and feeling the swell of flesh beneath Chris' sweat pants press into his hip.

"Yeah, I did. Paybacks are hell, aren't they?" Chris said, eyes darkening as his fingers burrowed into Vin's hair.

"Not quite the word I was thinking of, cowboy," Vin said and then gave up any pretenses of thinking at all.

** Tuesday, 9:30 a.m., Larabee Ranch**

The startling sense of deja vu that caught Chris was enough to make him stop what he was doing and grip the handle of the barn fork tightly. His eyes were utterly caught by Vin working, the younger man's back to him, sweatshirt stained and slightly muddied, the dark hair caught up under a knit cap while Vin worked to move fresh straw into the stall he had just cleaned. Chris couldn't even be sure exactly what moment he was reliving -- or seeing so clearly it felt as though he'd seen it before. God knew it wasn't Sarah he was seeing straining her back to break the heavy bales.

She hadn't shied from doing this kind of work -- couldn't have, raised as she had been -- and she could muck out a stable or run a horse as well as Chris. But that wasn't what prompted the intense feeling of having been here before.

It wasn't just the similarity of action, and certainly not of form, but the feeling was there, sharp and familiar and burning through his lungs a lot more harshly and infinitely more sweetly than the cold air just beyond the doors.

Vin no longer asked what needed to be done around the ranch, except when they were planning a series of tasks. He'd take care of the horses if he was here and up first which was usually, do Chris' laundry when he did his own on the weekends. Not so much being the more domestic side of their partnership, just a matter of personality -- if something needed doing and Vin saw it, he'd do it and not put it off.

And not totally uneven either, although sometimes Chris knew Vin bore the brunt of it if only because Chris was the one most likely to have to work late, stay at the office until going home seemed like a waste of time and gas. Too late and he'd taken to crashing at Vin's place, hiring his closest neighbors, the Albertsons, practically as a clan, to help out when he couldn't get home. Or Vin would offer to go out and check and Chris would come home to find the horses bedded and something in the oven or refrigerator to eat, Vin asleep on couch or bed until he heard Chris return.

It had been the most constant thing he and Sarah had fought about, when he could remember anything that wasn't tainted by the blind grief of her death, the shattering loss of his son before he ever really got to know Adam at all -- all he could have been, all Chris wanted for him. Other memories came easier now, happier ones, of Sarah cussing at the horses they'd had then, of turning the hose on Chris when they'd cleaned the barn, teasing him unmercifully and keeping him company when he worked, her belly so fully and round she could hardly walk. Sweetly painful, but still sweet, easier to remember.

But the day to day came back, and the fights. They never lasted long but somehow they would always returned to the same topic -- mostly the hours Chris worked, the job itself, Sarah's fears turning to anger and he hadn't even been working for the ATF then.

He never got that from Vin, which made sense, given that Vin did the same thing for a living and understood better than Sarah had ever been able to grasp, why Chris did it -- what drew him. It wasn't an unfair comparison and Chris never blamed her for wanting them, their family, to come first and they would have -- Sarah and Adam and the ranch. He'd planned a few more years of work, hoped the ranch, the breeding of horses would make up the gap between his salary and their dreams and he would have left the police force and settled. That had been the plan.

The deja vu faded and Chris dug the tines of the fork into the muddied straw to toss it into the wheelbarrow, feeling the prickle of doubt in his gut. Vin was here and they were together, but they didn't live together, not really. Chris hadn't asked, not yet -- not sure how to ask, or even if Vin would say yes. He wasn't even sure that was what he wanted.

He'd made good his promise earlier, made it up to Vin, left his lover sprawled and satisfied on the bed. Chris was pretty smug himself for making Vin look so damn pleased as he himself felt, and managing, for a little while anyway, to chase away the doubts he'd seen in Vin's eyes earlier.

It occurred to him that these three days would be the closest glimpse he'd have of what living with Vin could be like than they'd ever managed. They'd had a week in Texas in December but that had been odd and its purpose more to heal spirits and bodies than anything. Chris had caught a glimpse of Vin's life as a child and came to appreciate more than he ever had how much the peace and stillness that were a part of Vin Tanner weren't as much a part of his nature as something he fought for, clung to and needed. Had to have the way Nathan needed to help people, or Josiah to think on meanings, or Buck to make as many women as he could feel appreciated for being just what they were.

Here, Vin had to make time to find that quiet and he did, most often in this very place. But even so, in the near eight months since their affair had gone from casual to something deeper, their time together was a sporadic scattershot of weekends and nights. The days they had together as often turned to the upkeep of the ranch, or plans to go out -- but for the next three days Chris had no plans. There was nothing that needed to be fixed or repaired at the ranch, there was food enough, it was the middle of the week, and despite the worries plaguing them both, they had nothing to do but be with each other.

Chris had no idea what that would look like, be like, but the sense of deja vu nudged at him again and he wasn't sure he was ready for it -- to be so comfortable, to actually have time to think about himself and Vin together. A couple, a partnership, and while Chris still couldn't quite get his mind wrapped around the idea of them in anything resembling a marriage, he was starting to wonder what it could look like.

They'd have to make it up as they went, he supposed, taking a deep breath as he actually started to think in the long term. He couldn't entirely ignore Vin's doubts -- his questioning of what he was doing and why. It took something to realize, to remember, that he had more than ten years on Vin, that when Vin talked about his entire adult life, he was talking about less than a decade. Vin had certainly matured earlier than that but even with a hard life, he hadn't really been an adult, just a kid forced to make it in an adult world. Chris had been out of school and into the naval academy seeing active duty with the SEAL teams, kicking ass and being foolish with Buck, swapped Lieutenant's bars for a badge before he met and married Sarah and that had been late. Five years as a husband and father, three years trying to kill himself to kill the grief and now he was looking at the upside of forty with a lover who had killed his first man probably around the time Adam was being born.

And Vin would likely be no clearer on what it could be like, or should be like, to live his life with another person. Even if Chris hadn't managed to coax some bits of Vin's past into the conversation, he could see that Vin really didn't know what it was like to have something constant in his life. Not the way Chris had counted on his family when he was growing up, or on Sarah or even on his long term friendship with Buck. Vin was wary of burdening Chris with what he saw as his problems, which frustrated Chris no end when Vin was so ready and so willing to help Chris with his. There were times when Chris saw Vin treating each day they had like it was the only one, maybe the last one, determined not to mar it or let it slip away with a mark of disagreement, which was so far out of Vin's personality, it almost made Chris laugh. He knew what it was, Vin finally articulating it that week in December -- what he could touch in a day -- it was all Vin could see even when Chris knew he wanted more.

This thing with Barrett had been a first -- an indication of how deeply it was affecting Vin, to let that worry carry over and let Chris see it. To be so angry Sunday, Monday's review only reinforcing his fears and doubts and last night -- this morning -- to actually give voice to them.

If Randall were after them, because they were together -- the wedge he could use would be this, could be this, even if he didn't know it. Vin's trust wasn't given lightly and Chris knew that, had known it, seen it from the very first. But he trusted Chris -- not to the exclusion of his own judgment but that wouldn't be that obvious from the outside.

"You trying some mojo I don't know about to get that muck up?" Vin asked, the soft rasp of his voice full of amusement and Chris realized he'd been staring at the stall without seeing it.

"Other than wishing it gone, no," Chris said with a grin and bent his back to it again, not surprised when Vin helped, the two of them clearing it up quickly. Chris pushed Vin away when he would have laid the straw too, finishing the job himself then driving the tines of the fork into the bucket of sand by the door to clean them. Vin was outside without his coat but the day had warmed some and the three shirts he was wearing seemed to be keeping him warm enough. Sire was put out, knowing his treats were usually in the pockets of that coat and nosing around the pockets of Vin's tight jeans would be a waste of effort. Instead, he nosed Vin's head and Chris laughed as the nibbling teeth pulled Vin's cap off and a few strands of hair.

"Ow! Damn cow, gimme' that," Vin said and tried to snatch his cap back. Sire pulled his head away and moved off, still lipping the cap and Chris nearly fell over laughing as the big horse acted like an oversized dog, playing keep away with Vin.

Hearing him, Vin only gave him an exasperated look but the game went on until Sire decided to pull his ace and dropped the cap into the water trough, then took a drink, effectively submerging the scrap of wool. Vin swore and fished it out, whapping the horse with it. Sire ignored him and then trotted off to bedevil Legius who had been pointedly not watching any of his barn mate's antics.

"Tend to agree with him," Chris said when Vin approached, holding the soggy cap out like a dead animal. Vin looked up at him, smart comment on his lips but Chris stopped him with a touch, sweeping his fingers through the tangled mess of Vin's hair. "Like you better without it. God knows you've got enough hair to keep your head warm."

"Got a little follicle envy going on there, Larabee?" Vin said with a grin but there was a flush to his cheeks and a brightness in his eyes. "Afraid that mop of yours is getting a little thin?"

Chris grinned and used both hands to sweep the dark curls back from Vin's face. "Could be. You still gonna be interested when I'm sporting a bald spot?" he asked.

"Long as you don't comb those long scraggly hairs over it...that'd be embarrassing..." Vin said. "Way you tear at it sometimes, it's a wonder you ain't bald yet."

Chris tugged on Vin's hair, then dug his fingers into it, pulling the other man close. "Well, since you're usually the cause, guess you should be the one to deal with it...when it falls out," he said and found Vin's mouth, felt the shiver that ran through him that had nothing to do with the cool air.

"Feeling a little randy there still, stud?" Vin asked, tossing the ruined cap toward the barn and resting his hands on Chris' hips.

"Just taking time to appreciate the time off," Chris said, chuckling softly, knowing if he gave Vin even the slightest encouragement, they'd spend the day, if not all three of them, in bed. It was startling and, dared Chris admit it, flattering too. As far as he knew, Vin had never been that promiscuous: too cautious, too careful. Not celibate, certainly -- but what few encounters had been mentioned in passing, obliquely, had been rare. Vin had been awkward in the telling, a self-conscious attempt to let Chris know he was safe and clean, even dropping off blood work to prove it.

That gesture had made Chris angry for the brief few minutes it had taken to glance over the report. A glance at Vin, seeing the wariness there, had been enough to make him put a hard check on his temper. It forced him to look beyond what seemed an indication that Vin didn't believe Chris trusted him, to something else, a fear in Vin that had less to do with himself than Chris. An acknowledgement that this life he was forging with Vin was different than anything Chris knew, or could expect to make sense of easily or quickly.

Some of the adjustments were harder than others. Rumors at the office and innuendo had a tendency to torque Chris' mood, especially when he was tired or stressed -- which was most of the time. He envied Vin that; the detachment he seemed to be able to maintain. Hard on the heels of that came something less like envy and more like anger. Vin could turn the other cheek faster than anyone Chris had ever known and all the while have that left hook of his fisted and ready to fly.

"Chris?"

His attention was snapped back, something akin to concern on Vin's face, the hands resting on Chris hips rubbing gently. "Woolgathering," Chris said and the anxiety in Vin's eyes faded to nothingness. His thoughts turned back, though, studying Vin's face, the way he didn't twitch or shift his stance or fidget, as if standing in the middle of a muddied corral just looking at each other was the most natural thing in the world.

The shiver of deja vu lanced through Chris again, so sharply he had to breathe against it. Vin did shift then, hands moving upward to grip Chris' arms.

"Chris, what is it?" he asked and the alarm was in his voice again, in his eyes. It took Chris a moment to realize he was really and truly scaring Vin and that was an a amazing thing in and of itself for this man, who could face down a dozen drugged out and well armed perps without blinking or breaking a sweat.

"It's okay," Chris said and dug his hands into the thick, tumbled mass of Vin's hair again and pulled him close, seeking touch and scent. Vin was passive under his hands, under his mouth, but not without tension, answering the deep kiss readily but there was a soothing reception to it, similar to his response the night before, to provide what Chris needed even if Vin wasn't sure what that was.

"Stay with me," Chris finally managed, feeling Vin's fingers seek out the nape of his neck, stroking across the damp hair there and down the back of his neck.

"Not going anywhere." Vin pressed his lips to Chris' temple. "Like the company, mostly," he offered, the small smile on his lips translating to Chris' skin, to his mouth.

"No. I mean...for good. Move in," Chris said, feeling as breathless as a teenager. The last time he'd felt this was on seeing Sarah, on falling in love so hard and so fast he couldn't think. It hadn't been that way with Vin, the depth of feeling between them excavated out slowly until it was big enough for them both to fall into.

"Practically live together now," Vin said, not moving away, but he was.

"No. No, we don't," Chris said, meeting the suddenly guarded blue eyes and feeling his heart sink for a moment. Vin hadn't said no -- not at all. There was space needed here, there, in his head. "We're together when we can be, your place, here -- that doesn't need to change."

"Then...." Vin stepped back, just a few inches. "What are you...we...you want me to keep the apartment?"

Leaving Vin speechless wasn't actually that difficult to do but Chris found a flicker of amusement in Vin trying to get his brain wrapped around the difference between what they had and what Chris wanted to have. "I want *us* to keep the apartment, because it makes sense, when it's late and we're tired. Neighborhood's a little scary."

Vin snorted at that and looked out over the fields, the pasture. His hand still rested on Chris' neck, fingers rubbing along the fabric now, gathering the flannel into his fingers and releasing it. "So, together..." Vin cut his eyes at Chris and then dropped his gaze, jaw working but no words were coming out.

Chris stepped in and slipped an arm around Vin's shoulder. "Means I don't have to call you to see if you want my company. It means you have things here, what you need. What's yours...it means that damn apartment of ours gets a better television set so I don't have to squint to see the picture. Means that at the end of the day, no matter how late the day runs, we end up together. Even if we're mad." He said the last cautiously, carefully. He wanted Vin to know he never wanted to ask again: to come over, to be there, to help, or not, and he wanted the same for Vin. "Means you don't have to ask, ever," he said watching every word sink in deep and take hold.

Vin's fingers tightened their grip on Chris' shirt, fisting around the fabric so tightly it pulled up under Chris' arm. "Might be...the job...makes it..."

"Vin," Chris stopped him, fingers on his mouth, wishing he could hold this moment forever. Sentimental as all shit, he thought, seeing something in Vin's eyes that made him glad he'd spoken at all. Having never really had to think about belonging anywhere or with anyone, he wasn't sure he could have spoken if he'd known what the lack of doubt could do to Vin's face, to his eyes, to the way he couldn't quite seem to breathe deeply enough. "The job is what it is and ...we'll deal." He let his fingers linger on the slightly parted lips, then traced the lower one with his thumb. "You give it some thought, cowboy. Offer stands." Chris dropped his hand then and moved. "I'm gonna get lunch together."

Vin let him go, releasing his shirt. He looked a little shell shocked, his normal aplomb shaken in a way Chris really didn't expect from a man usually so self-possessed. It took a good deal of his own self-possession not to press for a definitive answer; patience not being one of his stronger character traits. He was learning though. He had a hell of a teacher.

He started back to the house but didn't even get to the corral gate before Vin spoke.

"How long?"

Chris turned back. Vin wasn't looking at him, still staring at the land, the thin line of trees, back north toward the mountains -- anywhere but at Chris.

"How long what?"

"How long's the offer gonna stand...?" Vin asked and it sounded ridiculous and childish and manipulative to Chris' ears. Might have been, had it been anyone else. Chris studied him and wondered if he needed to reassure Vin that nothing need change at all but took a moment to roll that around in his brain. Could he see them going on as they were for years? Maybe even decades?

It wasn't so hard. All he had to do was try and picture himself without this man in his life on some level, any level. "Read a study few weeks back," Chris said and Vin looked at him then, Chris swallowing to get around the thickness in his throat at the look on Vin's face. "Said the average life expectancy for a man is somewhere close to seventy years. Guess that gives you another thirty or so."

He meant it as a joke, a way to let Vin know there was no time limit. If he ever wondered what a man's face looked like when the world dropped out from under him, he'd never need wonder again.

Thirty years -- it was Vin's whole life or close to it. Too much time or not enough and either way, Chris realized the possibility had never really occurred to Vin, that he might actually live long enough to want more, want something long term. Not just to touch in a day but every day.

All intention of going back to the house, of giving time and space, fled his brain. "Vin, I didn't mean it like that," he said, striding back, gripping the other man's arms.

Vin stared at him as if afraid Chris would vanish in the next heartbeat. His own hands came up to clutch at Chris' sleeves and he took a few deep breaths before shaking his head. "Guess I shouldn't waste any time then," he said finally, softly.

"You won't. We won't," Chris said. "It doesn't have to be this way or any way, Vin. What we've got...I'm good with that too. Just a little...greedy."

Vin nodded. "Yeah...you just want someone to be able to cook something that doesn't require a microwave."

Chris grinned at him. "Well, there is that. And someone who sorts laundry...tired of gray socks." He lifted a hand and curled it around the back of Vin's neck, thumb stroking along the tanned neck, feeling the rapid pulse and flutter of Vin's heartbeat beneath the thin skin sheathing his throat. "And what do you get out of it?" He asked because he needed Vin to think on that as well.

Vin studied him, staring really, and that slow smile eased the tension in his face. "I get the best sex of my life whenever I want it," he said and Chris couldn't help but laugh, and was unable to deny the prideful flush in his veins, in his crotch. Vin gave him a wicked smile and moved closer. The outright mocking faded from his eyes and he bent his head to slant his mouth against Chris'. "Get to keep the best friend I've ever had," he said, before nudging Chris' lips apart with his tongue, pressing his lean frame against Chris until there wasn't even a breath of space between their bodies.

"You'll always have that," Chris promised, when Vin pulled back slightly. "Me too."

##  ~Chapter Five~

** Tuesday, 6:45 p.m., Garden Towers Suites, Denver**

It took a few phone calls but not too many favors, leaving him with a sense of satisfaction. Not that any of it had been that difficult. He'd had his people tagging Standish's movements for a bit. Not with his current intent to clear the deck, but because it was worth it to make sure his own business didn't suffer from ignorance.

He chuckled at that and wondered at the missed opportunities. If he'd though of it sooner he could have been eliminating his competition with the help of the federal government. A tip here or there to keep the competition ducking the Feds while he moved in on their customers. Sweet.

Still, there were easier ways to get what he wanted. Three thousand dollars could have gotten a hit on any of them -- on Standish certainly. Some idiot with a gun and a need for cash. The only trick being sure that the hit could never be traced backwards because amateurs got caught. It was a good thing he had a professional on hand.

It would have put them on guard though. Nothing quite stirred up the Feds like a deliberate loss. He'd indulged himself in a half dozen scenarios, looking for the one with maximum impact and the least amount of heat to follow.

"You want a drink, sweetie?" Michelle called and he glanced over, smile curling his lips and Michelle just kind of got brighter under his gaze.

"Yeah. Something sweet. One of your martinis," he said, letting his eyes linger on the lush curves and long leggedness of his current inamorata. She was a mercenary little bitch at heart but that worked for him. She was heartless too, under the coos and slinky sexuality. She'd have made a great whore, a better courtesan if such things really existed any longer.

It amused him though, that her loyalty really had very little to do with money. She had a particular itch that he knew how to scratch. He had to watch her though, sometimes. For all her sex kitten act there was a brain under the spiky blonde hair. She suited him well and she was an asset in the Orient, in Hong Kong where she played the power players like the fiddles of her bayou childhood.

The tinkle of ice in the martini shaker was a signal that she'd be back soon and he turned his attention back to the spread out electronics and gadgetry on the table. If the ATF or the FBI only knew what was coming out of the east, they'd be doing more than supporting the bid of China to get into the WTO. Or maybe they did and the little toys he was sorting through were the pay off. High tech, ceramic casings and the heightened security at the airports hadn't even hiccupped. He wouldn't need most of it -- not for this, for his plans. Some of it was meant to tempt buyers but he'd taken the samples. A little field testing.

Michelle appeared at his elbow, sliding a neon red drink onto the table before pressing to his back, her own drink threatening to spill as she nipped at his shoulder. "Dropped off the stuff," she murmured. "Nasty place. Smells like something died there."

"Something did," Hartman said. "Think of it as an open grave," he said with a grin and Michelle snickered, reaching around him to pick up the long slim wand, and flicked the switch. Blue eyes met his as she ran the wand along his arm without touching him, but the hairs on his arm stood up, the current obvious. He didn't flinch, just watched her, eyes narrowing when she smiled and ran the wand just in front of his crotch. He could feel the tingle through his slacks.

"Guess I should get one. You know, in case I get mugged," she said and switched it off.

"If you want to go try it, feel free to borrow it," he said and picked up his drink and sipped it. Sweet, yes, but with a nice bite. "I'm sure the local boys in blue would love to be able to take one more street punk off their lists of unsolved muggings."

"I'm sure," she said and turned around, pushing a few items out of her way so she could sit, sliding her ass along the dark wood and lifting one leg to brace one perfect foot on the edge of the table. "You could show me how it works," she suggested, taking another sip of her drink. "See if I flinch."

"You wouldn't," Hartman said with certainty, but picked up the wand, flicking the switch. He grinned. Her nipples got hard under the thin t-shirt she wore at just the hum of electricity. He adjusted the strength of the current and let the wand stroke along her bare thigh, not touching flesh. "If I had more time, my dear, I'd let you play. You'll just have to stick to the plan."

Michelle stretched a little, opening her legs wider and Hartman accommodated her, letting the current pass over the inside of her thigh. The short skirt was hiked to her hips and he didn't even have to bend his head to know she was wet, the scent of her strong and his nose twitched.

"You are such a slut," he said and Michelle grinned at him.

"Mmmm. Just like your pretty little friend," she murmured as he nudged the leather of her skirt higher. "Never thought you were the type. You've been holding out on me."

He barely brushed the curls at her pubis and she drew a sharp little breath. "Never, darling. But you'd like it, wouldn't you? Take care of all those nasty boys..."

"That's what nasty boys are for," she said coyly, arching her back as he barely stroked the crease of her thigh. "I think you should share."

"Business, 'chelle. Never mix the two," he warned and touched her to watch her grip the edge of the table, head thrown back as the current shot through her forcefully enough to make her spine arch and her knuckles go white. Not a sound though, legs opening wider and Hartman felt the rush all the way to his toes, cock hardening in his slacks. "I could fuck you with this," he hissed and she snapped her head forward, eyes glittering and lip curling.

He turned the wand off and set it slowly down on the table, watching her fight off the trembling of her limbs, full chest heaving. He eyed her for a moment then began putting things back in their cases. Out of his peripheral vision he watched her pull off her shirt, then lift her other leg to the table. She picked up her drink and drained it then reached between her legs.

He finished putting the instruments away very carefully then leaned forward to watch her, meeting her mocking smile with one of his own. "I don't think he likes girls," he said and bent his head to kiss her up raised knee.

"Neither do I," she said, in between increasingly erratic gasps for breath, fingering herself and Hartman reached out to tease one pert nipple. "Don't like men either," she hissed at him as he pinched and twisted the tender flesh.

Hartman grinned. "I know. It's covered, sweetheart. Maybe one or two in the van. Needs to be fast."

"I'm fast," she said as he moved his hands up along her thighs then pulled her hand away, leaving her panting. She reached for his slacks and he let her unbutton them and shove them down before he pulled her forward. She wriggled and moved and used her heels to pull him close. "You want him to hurt," she said and leaned back as Hartman pushed inside her, letting his breath out in a long sigh as she closed around him.

"There are other ways of inflicting pain than the physical," he said as he rocked into her, hard.

"Not as much fun, but you're the boss," she said, disappointed.

 

"I am that," he said as one hand covered her left breast and the other closed around her throat tightly. Michelle made a choking sound and bucked up against him, movements becoming more frantic and her hands clutching at his wrist as he fucked her deep and hard, watching her face redden and listening to the rasping sound of her breathing as she struggled. Her body flopped and twitched when she came and he came a few moments later while she was still gasping for breath.

There were bruises already forming and Hartman sighed as she struggled to sit up, eyes glazed but a satisfied smile on her face. She reached for him, covering his mouth and throat with hot little wet kisses. "You should think about it. You'd get off on it."

"Business, dear," he said and she shrugged and finished off his drink.

"You're the boss. But you should think about it. If you don't want to, let me...or one of the boys. Marcus would love the chance."

"You have a seriously kinky mind, my dear."

She smiled and slid off the table. "Told you. Don't like men...except to hurt them."

"And that leaves me exactly where in your estimation?" he asked, raising one eyebrow. She smirked at him and patted his now flaccid cock.

"You're not a man, Tony. You're a fucking psychopath with illusions of humanity. You get off on it, the same way I do. But one of these days, you're going to be on the bad end of the pain. I'm just hanging around to see it."

That made him laugh and Michelle slid away. "Don't you want to be the one?"

"No, sugar. 'Cause when you get yours, you'll take whoever it is with you. I'm not planning on dying so soon."

"I could kill you now."

"You could, but you won't," she said, heading into the kitchen for another drink, shoving the skirt down and letting the scrap of leather pool on the floor. Elegantly long legs were spread wide as she bent over to pick it up, exposing the firm curve of her ass. She grinned at him from between her legs and stood up, slinging the leather over her shoulder,.

Hartman grinned, fastened his pants and picked up his cell phone. He probably wouldn't. Not yet anyway. He'd wait until she betrayed him and that would be soon, and damned if he wouldn't miss her.

But first she had a couple of ATF agents to kill for him.

Tuesday, 7:10 p.m., Larabee Ranch

They didn't discuss it again, Vin giving Chris and himself time to let his 'yes' settle a little and afraid if they did talk about, force it to take on some kind of form and structure, it might all break apart again.

Not that he thought it likely Chris would rescind the offer, but Vin wasn't any more resistant to a certain cynicism than Chris was and he had to wonder why now, and how much of it had to do with the Hollinger case or Commander Randall's vague suspicions. He supposed it was a good thing that Chris hadn't asked when one or the other of them had just escaped the great hereafter a little too closely. That, he could have written off as reaction.

This though, this was a pretty big gully to try to leap and while Vin was pretty sure Chris would be on the other side to catch him, he might feel a little better if he had someone to just shove him across.

One person. His whole life. Together...it wasn't so alien a thought he didn't know what it meant, and not so unsure of his own feelings to even try and claim he didn't want it. But this had all the marks of a deliberate choice instead of the kind of drifting toward it that he and Chris had been doing for months now, and the way Vin had done with so much of his life.

Most of the guys his age that he knew were already settled, had wives, kids, families, lives that somehow represented all that was normal in the great illusion of American life. Chris had had that once too. And he was trading it for this, for Vin.

Buck had worried about that too, not really condemning but not entirely understanding. The three of them and maybe more importantly, Chris and Buck, had managed to repair that bridge, but the ground under Vin felt a little shaky at the moment.

They'd finished taking care of the barn then taken the horses out for a bit, Vin glad Sire decided he was still in a mood to play because it had kept all his attention on the fractious animal and given him little time to dwell on what he'd agreed to.

Waking up every morning to Chris, every night, the hours in between, on the job, at home. Knowing Chris would give him space when he needed it and recognizing that this time, with this between them, he might need to open that space to Chris a little more often.

And a small part of him almost wishing they could have kept it at the "it's just sex" phase of the relationship. He'd missed that turn awhile back, though, and wasn't likely to back track to pick it up again.

Not really prone to dwelling on what could go wrong, Vin still found himself... Scared was as close as he could come but didn't quite describe it. Neither did wary. If he'd ever been sure of anything in his life, it was Chris Larabee. It should have made him feel better that there was one sure thing in his world when everything else seemed to be going all to hell pretty quickly.

"Give me that..." he said, snatching the explosives report out of Chris' hands, and got a chuckle. Chris had been going over the compiled reports since after dinner, trying to make some kind of cross reference between what the forensics team had come up with and what JD and Nathan had managed to pull out of records and licensing.

But the records and licensing data was pages long and Chris kept having to flip through the two and given that Larabee wasn't likely to let it go until he had something to send back to the team, Vin would rather deal with the two page report than the data sheets. There was a stack of other papers too: expense reports, requisitions, older case reports and surveillance that Chris inevitably ended up bringing home because he could never, ever find the time at the office to read through or sign off on all of them. Maybe if Vin could help him get through at least this part of his backlog, Chris would call it a night -- on the paperwork anyway.

What they had was a series of lot numbers for the recovered explosives although Chris wasn't sure they'd ever be able to figure out where the old dynamite had come from and that had them all worried. The C-4 was marginally easier to trace since Hollinger hadn't actually been smart enough to scrape the imprint off -- or just hadn't expected there to be anything to find when he was done -- which could have easily been true.

JD and Nathan would be using the computers to match and mark but Chris had it in his head that sometimes, things got missed, random things that wouldn't make it into a binary quest for logic. Vin couldn't count the times when they'd gotten together after work and done just this. It was never easy for him to force the lines of words and numbers to stay in the correct order and he scribbled to himself, writing the lists of serial numbers in a column and reading them off while Chris hunted the lists for the distributors that had bought or transferred the explosives.

Far too many of the remaining candidates pointed to the Colorado DOT and Vin met Chris' eyes briefly.

"Hollinger never worked for the DOT," he said.

"Nope. Not from what we know. Never did demolitions neither," Vin said, pulling the fact sheet on Hollinger over to study it. "Doesn't take much to learn how to set a charge or rig a detonator though. Library, Internet."

"Bigger than what he'd done before."

"If he was the same guy that took out the other churches," Vin said, not liking what he was seeing in the list of cross references and mismatched facts.

Chris ran his hands through his hair, a deep frown marking his forehead and mouth. "More than one, maybe."

Vin leaned back in the dining room chair staring up at the ceiling. "Probably."

"Some kind of ...group."

"Nothing coming across like that."

Chris groaned and swore. "Multiple lunatics, unconnected."

"It is the American way," Vin said and rubbed his eyes. "Nothing from Josiah yet?"

"Not much. He's got an hour's worth of tape, plus the one on your voice mail. And you know we're going to get a three page list of cross referenced words and biblical references before he's done."

"Makes you wish he'd take up crossword puzzles, don't it?" Vin asked and smiled when Chris chuckled.

"Crystal ball would be more help at the moment," Chris said.

"You gonna call it in?" Vin asked getting up to grab them a couple of beers from the refrigerator. Chris glanced at the clock and shook his head.

"It'll wait until morning," he said accepting the beer and glanced at the second pile. "Let me sign off on some of this stuff and I'll quit," he promised and Vin only grinned at him.

"No plans for th'evening, although I'm sure Ezra would love to get some of his cash back."

"Ezra needs to learn the meaning of the word discretionary funds," Chris groused and pulled the first of the expense reports off the pile to review.

Not really wanting to watch TV, or do much of anything, Vin sat back and put his feet up in second chair, looking over the list he and Chris had compiled, sipping at his beer and occasionally answering Chris when he questioned an itemized expense. Chris never quite managed to shove the paper work onto either Vin or Buck, but there were times when it might be easier if he had, if only to cut his own frustration a bit.

"Explain to me how a Motel 6 in Canon City can have a thirty-five dollar room service charge?" Chris muttered. "Kind of low end for that sort of thing. I didn't even know Motel 6 had room service."

"Sure they do. Friday night all you can eat catfish fry," Vin teased, grinning unrepentantly at the glare Chris shot him.

"Why am I having difficulty seeing Ezra Standish eating fried catfish?"

"He's a southern boy at heart, Chris. Don't forget it," Vin shot back and glanced at his list again, studying it carefully and then looked again. "Chris...you got a listing for Webster's Grading &amp; Gravel?"

"On the expense report?"

"No. The data sheets. You marked it, " Vin said and pulled the bulky green sheets over to try and sort through the listings. Chris set the expense report aside and reached for the sheets himself.

"What have you got?" he asked.

"Hunch maybe," Vin said. "Just doesn't sound like a big operation."

"LLC," Chris said finding the entry and looking over what information he had. "Mostly landscaping."

"And they would need C-4 for what?" Vin asked. "Mighty deep fish ponds."

"The license fees and transport alone would be pretty big expenses for a small company. Any others?"

Vin read off two more companies and then Chris checked through the rest of the listings, flagging them, finding a fourth. "So they have the licenses, can legally take shipment of and sell C-4 and other explosives...but you have to wonder how much profit there would be in it for them."

"None of the bigger companies would keep dynamite that unstable on site," Vin said quietly. "But there's got to be lots of that stuff out there, off the books."

"Run it at a premium. Hollinger still could have stolen it though," Chris said, folding the sheets back up.

"Maybe. But we've got no theft reports right?"

"Not that JD has been able to come up with -- not in these serial numbers," Chris said.

The sound of crunching gravel had Vin sitting up and turning toward the door, Chris' head raising a split second later. "You expecting anyone?" Vin asked, getting to his feet.

"No," Chris said, eyes narrowed and he moved toward the door. Vin hung back, wondering at the edginess of both of them, because his eyes certainly did scan over to the gun case. "It's Buck," Chris said recognizing the big Bronco and Vin relaxed a little.

Buck came in without knocking. He grinned at them both, waving Chris back down when he started to get up. "Relax. Nothing really, was driving and found myself headed up here."

"No date tonight?" Vin teased, offering Buck coffee or beer. Buck went for the beer.

"Have you ever known me not to have a date?" he asked archly. "Later. Mimi doesn't get off until nine." He took the beer and sighed, looking over Chris' shoulder. "If you boys are this bored, maybe you should get out more."

"We might," Chris said and leaned back, eyeing his friend. Vin settled across from them, fingering his own beer. "You just happened to be headed this way."

Buck made a face. "If it was that important I woulda' called."

"Buck," Chris said softly, watching him and Buck fidgeted a bit, glancing at Vin.

"You want something to eat?" Vin offered, trying to find the least awkward way to let Chris and Buck talk privately if that's what Buck needed.

Buck shook his dark head and ran a hand through the thick stuff. "No. Probably affects you more than Chris…well…shit," Buck sighed softly.

"Spit it out, Buck," Vin said, forcing himself to remain relaxed.

"Saw Carla down in records for lunch today. Just talking, you know," Buck started.

"She turn you down?" Vin asked, glad to see Buck smile a little.

"She did not. But….Jay Randall's pulling case files back for a year. Carla got the request yesterday, turned them over this morning."

Chris didn't move, fingers curled near his mouth and eyes narrowing until Buck spoke again. "He's checking everything from the IA stuff to the Juarez case," he said and only glanced up at Vin briefly.

"You tell Travis?" Chris asked quietly and Buck nodded.

"I did. He told me he'd check it and to leave it alone. They called Dan Richards and Josiah back into today. Sounds like a man with an axe to grind," Buck said.

"Sounds like," Chris said and Vin moved restlessly, caught Chris watching him and tried to settle again. "What other files?"

Buck listed a half dozen, Chris doodling notes on the legal pad, then frowned at the listing.

"You don't look too happy," Vin said.

Chris shook his head and looked up at Vin and then at Buck. "Might should be. These cases…ours but they don't actually fall directly into our load on closure. In all cases, including this one, the Hollinger case, we're the team of record but guess who's signing off on the reports and was the supervising agent?"

"Travis?" Buck hazarded and Chris shook his head.

"Nope. McCall. J. Lawrence McCall."

Vin looked over the list as well, understanding the impact but not the rationale. "So…I mean all the teams ultimately report to McCall…"

"Yeah, but he doesn't sign off on all cases. That's usually left to the SAC, or the AD. McCall signs off on them when he directly intervenes."

"He likes us," Buck said with a small grin and Chris snorted.

"Not sure that's what I'd call it and trust me, he does not think I or any of you yahoos are angels. But he likes results," Chris said, looking thoughtful once more and then pulled the list off the pad and handed it to Buck. "You meeting with Travis again in the morning?" Buck nodded and took the listing. "Give him that."

"You gonna' tell me where this is going?" Buck asked.

"Not yet. Give that to Travis, see if he comes up with the same thing I do and then we'll see. As much as I'd like to know what Randall's agenda is, we need to stay out of it as much as possible," Chris said glancing at Vin again.

"You're the boss," Buck said but he didn't seem too pleased, nor was Vin but he didn't see any indication on Chris' face that he'd get more of an answer than Buck had.

"Anything else going on?" Vin asked as much to redirect as because he was curious, and he felt like he was leaving his teammates in the lurch -- regardless of whether it was his fault or not.

Buck finished his beer and sat the bottle down, rolling it between his hands. "Not a whole lot. Ezra got a run on a small arms buy from a contact he thinks is legit. We pushed it to Friday. Figured you two would want in and to give us some time to check it out."

"Was he expecting it?" Chris asked and Buck shook his head.

"Not really but he says the source is good, if quiet for awhile. I put in the operational request before I left, just in case. Looking to set it not far from your place," Buck said, eyeing Vin. "Over off Market Street. JD and I were going to take a spin around the block tomorrow, get a prelim done."

"What are they looking to sell?" Vin asked.

"Saturday Night Specials, .38 calibers...mixed bag. Appears the local gang bangers are having a cash flow problem," Buck said on a small laugh.

"I'm just bleeding for them," Chris said with a roll of his eyes. "We can run in tomorrow as well," he said and Vin nodded in agreement. He probably knew the area as well as any of them.

Chris steered the conversation away from work for a bit, and at some point they all kind of wandered into the kitchen to get food, Buck more than willing to talk about the fabulous Mimi and what he had planned later in the evening. It was a smoke screen though, because as Buck got ready to head out to pick up his date, he looked nearly as tense as when he arrived, which wasn't usually Buck's way. Chris turned over some of the paperwork he'd finished as well as the list he and Vin had made and walked Buck out to his truck.

Vin hung back, claiming it was too cold and it was, cold enough that Chris' skin was like ice when he finally returned. "Buck okay?" Vin asked.

"Yeah. Not much liking being the guy in charge at the moment. This whole thing stinks of politics and while I think Buck could do my job in a heartbeat -- he hates this stuff."

"So do you," Vin reminded him.

Chris grinned as they stacked up papers and logs and set them aside. "Yeah, but I hate it because it gets in my way. Buck hates it because it exists at all. And you...you just ignore it."

"Don't I wish," Vin said, letting Chris put the paperwork in piles he could sort out in the morning while he locked up. It was still almost too early to go to bed and Vin settled on the sofa to channel surf until he found something vaguely interesting while Chris got out the whiskey and poured. He passed a glass to Vin before flopping onto the sofa and resting his head against Vin's thigh, the glass resting on the sofa cushions.

Vin let his fingers run through the thick gold hair for a few minutes, watching and waiting for the fine lines between Chris' eyebrows to ease as he stared at the television set. They didn't.

"You gonna clue me into what's eating your brain cells, there, or just let me suffer?" Vin finally said and Chris seemed startled to find him there. He rolled to his back, looking up at Vin and shook his head slightly, capturing Vin's hand to rest it on his chest.

"Just trying to sort it all out. The explosives, Randall. You."

"Me? Jesus, Chris...If I'm one of those lines cutting your face apart, pretend I don't exist."

Chris grinned at him. "Rather toss the rest. We could stop by your apartment tomorrow..."

To pick up things and Vin found himself chuckling. Singleminded, Chris Larabee was. "Yeah. We could. Think I left dishes in the sink. Get that fancy TV set you want so bad. You leave it there...plan to enjoy it only briefly..."

"Could take out insurance," Chris said.

"I could buy a whole truckload of TVs for what insuring that place against theft would cost me." Vin rubbed his thumb over Chris' chest. "Whole different definition of community property."

Chris nodded and dropped his gaze, focusing on Vin's hand instead. "Have to do some of that too," he said. "Call up Jack Harlan."

Vin stared down at him, confused. "What you need your lawyer for?"

"Settle for us...put a quit claim on this place so that ...you can do what needs to be done, should it ever come up. Need more than a Power of Attorney."

Vin was quiet, staring at the TV until Chris rolled over to sit up. "I'm not planning on anything happening, Vin. But I could get laid up again...and if you're here, it makes more sense than Buck trying to handle it all."

Vin nodded, chewing his lip and tried not to let it mean anything other than what it did, save for the quit claim. The ranch was paid for outside of taxes, that much he knew. Sarah's insurance had seen to it.

Chris' hand pushed into Vin's hair, coming to rest on the back of his neck. "Moving too fast?" he asked quietly.

Vin leaned his head back and rolled his neck so he could look at Chris. "A little, but you know what they say...if you're not at the head of the pack, you're falling behind. You've got family, Chris."

"Yeah, I do and if I can get my act together I'd like them to meet you and you them, but my folks don't need this place and God knows I don't want that scramble of a Victorian nightmare they live in," he said on a grin. "Let Dan and Katharine fight over it."

"Still, they're family," Vin said, unconvinced.

"Jesus, Vin…what do you think you *are*, if not family?"

Unable to breathe, Vin thought fleetingly, Chris' eyes on him as if the obvious should have been. How often had he appreciated hearing Chris mention, off hand, something that included Vin in the sum of his life? He got a little thrill at it, like a secret pleasure. He didn't need and never had asked for promises -- and got them anyway. And how long had Vin thought of Chris as family -- as much as his mother or his grandfather, more than friends, almost like brothers but even more? Long before he'd first found himself in Chris' bed, before they'd become lovers, fuck buddies...the early days of their changed relationship blurring into nights of barely checked and revelatory passion.

That first morning, settling the idea of Chris and home inside him like some kind of imprinted instinct, when Chris had woken and smiled and not quite leered, but reached for Vin anyway and it hadn't been for more sex, not immediately. Even now, months later, Chris taking him in his arms, or falling into Vin's with that soft sigh sent shivers through Vin that made his throat close up and his heart swell to bursting.

Family...said with the same tone and conviction and total lack of conditions or explanation Chris used when he spoke of Sarah and Adam, or of his family back in Indiana. They were distant shadows that Vin knew of but didn't know and still they were a part of all that Chris was. How he'd come to be who he was.

God, it was too fast, like finding himself on a roller coaster when he'd thought he was taking the Ferris wheel.

And Chris was waiting for an answer, looking half-torn between exasperation and amusement, the smug son of a bitch. All ready and usually two steps ahead of Vin and had been for awhile now. Stepping back occasionally because they were both running on instinct and the sure knowledge that things could change in a heartbeat.

Thirty years wasn't nearly enough, if he got that much, and what could he do but just take it as it was, take Chris as he was and stop wondering which parts of this were right, when the whole thing was righter than anything he'd ever known.

Snapping off a smart comment -- assuming he could come up with one -- wouldn't do anything but annoy Chris, although that could be worth it sometimes.

"Family," he said finally, seeing Chris lose a little tension Vin hadn't seen in his face before. "Just...been awhile since I thought of it...that way. Me part of one...more than with the boys," Vin said finally, stuttering over the right words to say it, to let Chris know it had sunk in.

And didn't need to, he realized because Chris was waiting for just that, for it to sink in...however it needed to settle: that Vin was every bit as much family as the one Chris'd been born to, married into and conceived.

It worked both ways, Vin knew, felt it settle in deep and hard. What family did he have if not Chris? Legal gyrations aside and Vin realized he didn't have to wait for his own death before people knew what they meant to him, where he could leave what was left of his worldly goods, little though they may be.

Settled and secured, like his old friends, other fellas at the ATF like Dan Richards who was married and worried about mortgages and college education for kids he didn't even have yet, or kids who were still trying to figure out the politics of kindergarten.

It was all too close and too real and Vin found himself pushing himself up off the sofa, needing space not so much for distance but because he could touch all that it meant, feel it spreading through him and needing a way out or he would burst.

The feeling wasn't new but it had been a long time since he felt it, walking the long acres of his grandfather's place in Texas. He'd known he was part of that place, part of Earl Tanner's life no matter how little it looked like the life the rest of the kids in school had with their mothers and fathers and siblings. What Chris had -- knew -- without interruption.

"Vin, it's a piece of paper," Chris said quietly, moving closer but not touching, anxiety and some understanding in his face in the way his voice went low, slipping under Vin's awareness as easy as a hand at his waist or the touch of fingers to his hair. "If this is home...it should be, no matter what could happen."

"It is," Vin said finally because Chris was arguing for a point he'd already won, Vin just hadn't capitulated and told him it was over. "It's...I get it," he said and turned because Chris wouldn't be convinced until he could see it. "Just needed to...guess that means you expect me to take care of that ornery black of yours if you get laid up, don't it?"

Done and finished and the grin on Chris' face couldn't have been any sharper or cleaner or done anymore to reassure Vin that he'd set Chris' worries aside.

"You love that horse. Reminds you of me," Chris said, voice rough and low again, not quite saying the words that felt awkward to both of them, and Vin wondered if they'd ever be able to say them, wondering again that women could say them so easily and mean them.

"He's got his good points," Vin allowed. Chances were Jack Harlan could do two as easily as one and giddily aware that Chris might well view suddenly being on the deed for a dirt scratch farm in Texas with about the same amount of enthusiasm as he did facing a review board. "So, tomorrow, we see Harlan, take a look at the meet site, and get you a fancy new color TV set."

"Maybe a used one," Chris said, still grinning.

"Sounds like a plan...leaves tonight."

"Got plans for that too."

The look in Chris' eyes only made Vin pray fervently he'd be able to walk tomorrow. Thinking wasn't necessary. Chris had it covered.

(continued...)


	2. Chapters 6 - 10

# Credens Furtiva (Stolen Trust)

  


## Part III of the "To Make of Heaven, Earth" arc

  
** by Maygra**

[chapters 6 - 10]  
  


##  ~Chapter Six~

Wednesday, 8:45 a.m., Downtown Denver

They were on the road by eight, Vin practically chomping at the bit to get a look at the buy site with a great deal more enthusiasm than Chris expected, given his still unresolved doubts about the Hollinger shooting. He kept his concerns to himself, though, even acquiescing to the use of Tanner's jeep for their sojourn into town. Better for casing the warehouse area north of Purgatorio, Vin said, and in a way it was true. Whoever might be occupying the area was less likely to take note of a ten year old jeep than Chris' shiny new truck. Even if it did have mud splattered all over the wheel wells.

A call to Jack Harlan got them in, Vin looking a little less at ease in the leather and brass appointed waiting area of Harlan's downtown office, but he hid it under a carefully constructed nonchalance when Jack's secretary called them in.

"I can wait out here," Vin offered.

Chris didn't know if it was discomfort or Vin testing their ever more flexible boundaries, maybe the limits of his own privacy. "If you want. You want to call the office and see if anyone wants to meet us for lunch?"

Vin nodded and stepped back into the waiting area, pulling his cell phone out.

"Short notice, Chris," Jack Harlan said offering his hand and gesturing Chris to take a seat. Harlan was closer to sixty than his dark hair would indicate, but his hands were age spotted and slightly gnarled from arthritis, the lines around his eyes and mouth not a product of the perpetual tan he seemed to have.

"Not urgent but I appreciate your getting me in."

"You said a quit claim? Found someone new?" Jack asked as gently as possible but obviously curious and smiling. Chris was oddly touched by the real concern his lawyer seemed to have for his life and well-being. Jack had known Sarah: it had been she who'd found him when she and Chris realized they were expecting and Sarah, ever mindful of the future, wanted to make sure their child would be cared for. Herself as well, but nearly everything had been put into Adam's name with Sarah as executor. They hadn't made the same provisions for Chris, neither of them willing to speak of it but sure that would be the most likely outcome, at least until Chris quit his job with the Denver PD.

It could have been much messier than it was, when they were killed. Jack Harlan had made it as easy and painless as possible, saving the ranch from estate taxes when Chris didn't give a damn and even from relatives of Sarah's Chris hadn't been aware of until she was dead. Over the years, Jack had stepped up for him on other occasions as well, annoyance suits brought up because of Chris' job, seeming to have a real feel and empathy for what the Bureau demanded of its people. To return the favor, Chris had directed more than one client to Jack Harlan's office, in no small way helping to pay for this fancy office on prime downtown real estate.

"Could say. Found someone who'll appreciate it..." Chris said as Jack pulled up the document on his computer.

"Name?"

"Vin Tanner," Chris said and Jack hesitated.

"Young man outside? He's one of your team, isn't he? Saw him on the news the other night."

"Yeah," Chris said, waiting, but still Jack didn't type in the name and he could feel the mood between them shift.

"You realize that this will give him the same rights to your property that you have? That he could conceivably sell it out from under you? Not easily but if he lodged a bill of sale--"

"He won't," Chris said. "Jack, he already has a power of attorney. Is there a problem?"

"He does?" Jack asked brow furrowed as he checked Chris' file.

"Your clerk filed it. I have his as well," Chris said. "You said this was easy."

"It is..." Jack said and met Chris' eyes briefly before entering Vin's name onto the form, along with his address, but Chris watched him, a little surprised at his reluctance and overly sensitive maybe, but he couldn't resist testing it.

"Need to set up another time to redo my will," he said when Jack finished and sent three copies of the document to his printer.

"Change your executor or add one?" Jack asked getting the papers. "Tanner will need to sign these as well."

"Disposition of my property," Chris said, putting his signature to all three copies. "I'll get Vin."

"Chris...as your attorney, I'd suggest you think about what you are doing. I understand how...close...you are to your team," he said but he so hesitated on picking the right word for his description of Chris' relationship, alarm bells Chris didn't even know he had went off. "But loyalty will only take you so far. You should consider what's...right. I mean, you do have family: a sister and a brother to think of. Nephews and nieces."

"Who'll all be fine without having to deal with a ranch in Colorado that isn't likely to turn much of a profit."

"The land alone is worth a good deal of money."

Chris eyed him, still unsure. "It's worth more to Vin than the money."

"I'd be less surprised if you were leaving it to Buck. At least you've known him longer. You've known Tanner for how long?"

"Long enough. It's my property and hopefully, I'll live long enough where I won't care who ends up with it. You ready for Vin?" he asked wondering if he weren't being overly sensitive after all.

Jack nodded and Chris opened the door, beckoning Vin inside.

"Just need you to sign on these," Chris said. "Jack I'm going to set up another appointment with Marcy, if you have no objection?"

Jack looked like he wanted to, watching Vin sign with his careful scrawl, but he only nodded tersely and Chris left them, setting up another appointment and then waited. It took Vin longer than he expected to emerge from the office, holding out an envelope to Chris. "Your copy," he said tightly and brushed by Chris, headed for the door.

Startled, Chris opened the envelope and checked it and then looked up when Jack emerged. Jack looked a little flushed and discomfited, almost embarrassed and Chris' eyes narrowed.

"Is there a problem here, Jack?" he asked quietly.

"I'm trying to do my best for you as your attorney. I don't like seeing my clients taken advantage of."

"And what makes you think I being taken advantage of?"

"Mr. Tanner just asked me if he could file a quit claim of his own," Jack said, mouth set. "Your private life is your own, Chris, but I'd be cautious--"

Chris drew a sharp breath, fingers tightening on the papers in his hand. "On my property?" he asked. "Should you be telling me this?" he asked remembering Vin's face.

"Mr. Tanner is not my client and technically, it now belongs to the two of you," Jack pointed out. "Or will once I file the claim."

"Are you telling me Vin Tanner just asked my lawyer to file a quit claim on property I just signed to him?"

"He wasn't quite that blatant. He merely asked for the forms--" Jack started but got no further as Chris whirled out of the office. He found Vin just outside the door, leaning against the outer wall, hunched down in his coat, face still flushed and a hard set to his mouth.

"You want to tell me what just happened in there?" Chris asked him, biting back anything more than the question and angry because he felt more confused than anything.

"Guess I'm not good enough for your lawyer," Vin said, with a twisted grin. "Maybe I shoulda' offered to pay him up front."

"Pay him for what?" Chris asked

"What you did, to file a claim on my place in Texas and the place at the lake," Vin said. "I'm sure I can find some other lawyer to handle it," he said obviously both angry and hurt somehow, which seemed odd, unless Jack Harlan had said something else.

That thought only rocked back when Chris finally let the rest of what Vin said settle. "You don't have to file on your land, Vin..."

Vin met his gaze and Chris felt a chill run through him at the cold, hard look in the blue eyes. "Neither did you. Why don't we just let it all lie, Larabee? Ain't likely I'd want to be at the ranch if you weren't there anyway...or any part of this fucking winter wonderland of a town," he said and pushed off the wall. "I'll be at the jeep. Still need to check out the drop site."

Chris grabbed at his arm and Vin reacted strongly, shrugging Chris' hand off and pulling his own out of his pocket. "Vin," Chris said, forcing his voice to calm. "What did he say?"

"Nothing that ain't been said before," Vin snapped and then looked away for a long moment. "Just leave it, Chris...I'm sorry. He just...it don't matter."

"Yes, it does," Chris said taking a step forward, relieved when Vin didn't pull away. "I only meant...me doing this doesn't require you to do anything...your grandfather's place is special to you, Vin."

"And the ranch isn't?"

"Not without you there," Chris said, caught off guard by how easy, and how true, the words were.

The hard set of Vin's mouth eased, his face and stance relaxing a little and he looked down, digging his hands into his pockets again. "My place...something happens to me, and ain't nobody but you going to know that it's special."

Because Vin had shared it with no one else. Jesus, one of these days Chris knew he was going to tread too heavily on Vin's seemingly impenetrable hide and break him in half. "I'm making a real mess of this, aren't I?" he asked softly, staring up at the grey skies.

"No more'n me. Maybe it is all too fast." There was a wistful honesty in Vin's tone of voice but he met Chris gaze steadily.

"Us too?"

Vin shook his head and smiled. "Not quite, cowboy. God, I don't know, Chris. Just...everything I want...it's right here and I just never really thought about what that would mean. But...everything I have, it's yours."

Forty degrees and overcast outside and Chris suddenly felt overly warm and blinded by the sun. Without a word he reached out and hooked an arm around Vin's neck, pulling him in, smiling a little to himself when Vin, hesitantly at first, wrapped his arms around Chris' waist and shoulder as well. "Fair enough and both ways, Vin." He hugged Vin tightly for a long moment then released him. "You get the jeep warmed up. I'll be right out."

Vin nodded, looking calmer but still slightly uncertain and trying hard to hide it. Chris took a deep breath and went back into the office. Jack was still in the front with Marcy but he looked up when Chris came in. "You can cancel that appointment, Marcy. And if you could go ahead and prepare a final bill for me, I'd appreciate it." Chris said, keeping his voice calm but firm. "Jack, need another moment of your time," he said, making sure Harlan knew it wasn't a simple request and preceding the man into his own office. Jack followed, carefully closing the door.

"Chris, I'm only looking out for your best interests," he said.

"I've been looking after my own for a long time, Jack. I expect you to have the claims filed. Be expecting a call from someone in the next day or so and I'd appreciate it if you'd fax or courier over any pertinent files to whoever gets my business," Chris said smoothly, flatly. "And if you have those blank forms for Vin, I'd like them as well. I'm sure any moderately competent lawyer can file the quit claims on his property in Texas and up in the mountains here for him."

"He didn't mention his property..."

"Did you give him a chance?" Chris hissed out. "And you're right, Jack. My private life is my own. I may appreciate what you did for me...but it only goes so far. And this is as far as it goes. I take it we're not going to have a problem, are we?"

Jack stared at him and then shook his head. "No, Mr. Larabee. I'll be certain that your files are complete when transferred to whoever you choose as your new attorney." He met Chris' nod with one of his own, professional distance firmly in place as he printed out additional blank forms. "It is possible Mr. Tanner can file these himself with both the states of Colorado and of Texas."

"Thank you," Chris said, taking the forms and with one last hard look at Harlan, left his office, stopping only long enough to settle his bill with Marcy before leaving. He found Vin waiting for him outside, the jeep idling right outside the door.

He passed the papers to Vin before buckling his seat belt. "Harlan says you can file them yourself, but I'll be looking for another lawyer, if you can wait a few days."

Taking the papers, Vin studied them and then very carefully folded them into thirds and put them in the glove box. "It can wait," he said simply and put the jeep in gear, not asking and Chris was just as glad.

He didn't know what Harlan had said to Vin and wasn't sure he wanted to. If he did, he suspected he might have found himself facing Harlan in a courtroom, pleading guilty to assault.

"What did he say?" he asked because his curiosity got the better of him and because there was just something wrong with Vin bearing the brunt of this by himself.

"Leave it," Vin said tightly.

"Not this time."

"God, if you aren't the stubbornest, poke your nose in--"

Chris covered Vin's hand on the gearshift. "Yeah. I am."

"He said I wasn't no friend to you if I robbed you of the last part of your happier life with Sarah and Adam. Improper relationships..." Vin fell silent, the stubborn set to his jaw convincing Chris that whatever else Jack Harlan had said wouldn't be repeated unless Chris beat it out of him. Or Jack.

Chris couldn't speak for a long moment, wishing desperately he had known this. He'd have mopped up the expensive office with Harlan's face. "Did you believe him?"

"No," Vin said quickly. Too quickly. "No," he said again more quietly, turning the jeep north. "Not really...I believe you, Chris."

One lie and one truth, only Chris wasn't sure Vin knew he was lying. He also wasn't sure which of them was having the harder time adjusting to this. He moved his hand but only enough to rest it on the seatback behind Vin's head, fingertips rubbing his neck through the thick curls. "Keep on believing, Tanner."

Vin nodded and after a few minutes relaxed. "Shouldn't a let him get to me. Guess it's gotten too easy...been lucky," he said and Chris only cupped the back of his head, grimacing at the irony. He needed to call Ezra and see if he'd found out anything, because while he might believe Jack Harlan's powers of observation were keen, he'd have a hard time believing the attorney had picked up on what was between Chris and Vin without at least some other source of information. Small talk, most likely and it could have been anyone: Buck, Nathan...Even Travis, although he though it unlikely. A half dozen other people at the office that might have let something slip in the secure presence of their lawyer and Jack had been a defense attorney long before he set up a private practice.

"It's good you got folks looking out for you, Chris," Vin said as he pulled past his own neighborhood and onto Market, heading for the drop site, some six blocks away.

"I can do without that kind of help," Chris said tightly, half angry at Vin for turning it so and knowing it was just Vin's way of twisting events in his own mind so they wouldn't cut so deeply. Vin slowed the jeep down, checking street numbers.

"It's what you pay him for," he said, but he was pushing past it, shoving it down and away, and Chris to some extent.

Chris sighed softly and withdrew his hand, starting to think he needed to keep a list of the things he and Vin needed to get clear on, but knowing it would be useless. He leaned forward to check out the area, and caught a number high on the side of a building. "Six thousand block. Lets walk it in."

Vin agreed and pulled off to park on a side street where there were a few other cars and trucks scattered along the narrow street: most probably customers of a seedy looking but apparently thriving coffee shop and convenience store on the corner. They didn't even bother locking the jeep, the soft sides making it nearly pointless, but both of them took a moment to check weapons. Unofficial business or not, this was possibly an even worse area than Vin's neighborhood if only because of its empty and isolated feel at start of business on a Wednesday.

Vin still hadn't replaced his knit hat and the stiff breeze tangled his hair as he got out, aggravating him. He dug around in the back and came up with a less than pristine bandana, halving it and tying the modified do-rag around his head. If anything it made him fit the area more, with his worn leather jacket and bleached pale jeans. Chris looked a bit more upscale: his jeans showing little sign of wear, his own black leather jacket still oily-new looking, his shorter hair standing up to the tempest of the wind a little better.

Vin caught him checking out their disparate appearances and chuckled softly. "Need to get you out in the field more, Larabee. Get you to blend in more. Or stand out more. Shoulda' borrowed Ezra's jag."

Chris gave him a wolfish grin and shoved his hand between Vin's shoulder blades to propel him forward. Vin laughed and took the step up to the sidewalk with quick grace, slowing just enough to let Chris come abreast of them, both of them with their hands buried deep in their coat pockets.

They weren't the only ones on the street, but company was sparse. It was cold and windy but dry enough and Chris had high hopes that the sun would burn away some of the chill as it had for the last few days. Around them the weak sunlight was a silvery glare on the plate glass store and office fronts -- most of them appearing empty although there were signs enough on the front of the buildings. Not the carefully carved or mounted plaques of a half century before but quick and cheap mountings of tin and paint, some more worn than others. Some of the glass fronts sported bars as well, cheap electronics and pawn shops, operating on low budgets and appreciating the low rent. Fewer people because there were no residential areas here, only businesses, or should have been if the economy and the city planners hadn't seen fit to put what business had started here into the red if they didn't move further out. The overly ornate facades were like mocking reminders of someone's poor foresight.

Somewhere, sometime, there had been hopes for this area. Chris could see it in the overpass built to connect the area to the more affluent downtown area, but even watching, he saw only three cars pass on the graffiti-laden concrete. This was more cut through than business district any longer and while not as hidden or obscure as some places in town or around the fringes, it made as much sense to hold clandestine and illegal meetings here where there was no one *to* see as it did in a place where no one *could* see.

The underpass itself was a gaping maw of a cave, the rusting train tracks explaining both the necessary height and depth and offering an acceptable view from both sides. Little chance of anyone sneaking up on them when there were no nearby cross streets, although Chris was already cataloguing where would be best to place the surveillance van. Vin, typically, was looking up as well as around, nudging Chris to cross the street, checking out the buildings opposite. Beyond the underpass was nothing of use: even Chris could see that, although having their backs to it didn't make him easy. The canted roofs of the warehouses beyond on the eastern side of the street were too barren and too exposed to hide even a pigeon, and those on the west would be completely blocked by the curve of the overpass. Still, a man on the ground could remain hidden easily enough, Chris marking his spots to compare with Buck.

His eyes wandered over the few signs of businesses still operating: warehousing and service industries mostly that didn't require the prestige of a good address to run their day-to-day office operations. On most of the office fronts the glass was tinted, often badly done with peel and stick reflective skins that showed tears and wear and their unfortunate inclination to shrink and crack. The last entrance on the front boasted a carefully hand-painted but obviously amateur signage, "Good Book Ministries: the Word of God, Not the Will of Man - Publishers. Worship Services Sundays 8:00 a.m. and 10:00 a.m., Wednesdays, 7:00 p.m.," and the whole thing translated into Spanish on the opposite window.

He leaned in, trying to detect activity through the tinted glass but couldn't tell anything and the door itself was locked and chained. He stepped back and pulled out a small notebook, writing down the names he could see, if for no other reason than to have JD run them, maybe make sure they would all be closed, and then hurried after Vin, who was already turning the corner.

Vin was moving past the immediate area, traveling a block further north to find the narrow gap between buildings, not even enough room to get a single car through and dry on the ground save the very center. Both of them looked up to see the overhangs of the two buildings extending into the gap. Chris followed Vin, cataloguing how very different this would all look at dusk, when the shadows would play havoc with both depth and shapes. He'd counted streetlights on the way up, wondering how many would actually be working.

The alley emptied out into a wider space, loading docks caught between two streets and the long rows of buildings. The buildings backed to those they'd just cased showed a bit more activity at their back doors, trucks and cars backed up or parked next to the heavy concrete pads and industrial sized doors closed against the cold. A showing of frost and condensation indicating there was heat being generated from within. Windows on the back side would reveal an even more desolate view than those on the front. The fire escapes rode high and black to the top floor and then to the roof by narrow ladders, the very age of the buildings probably excluding them from the need for interior fire escapes and steel reinforced panic doors. There was, no doubt, interior access, but if Vin had an approach, it would be this way rather than hunting down tenants or owners to gain access after hours. None of the structures were over three stories, although the one on the opposite side of the alley was taller by a good ten or fifteen feet. It was still only three stories by window count and Vin backed up as far as he could to the other side, eyes narrowed as he tried to picture angles and heights.

"Check both?" Chris asked and Vin chewed his lip before nodding and pulled his sunglasses out.

"Yeah. I'll take the higher -- but I think it's set too far off to get me a clear line of sight," Vin said and moved away, pulling his glasses on and for a moment Chris could only grin. The glasses alone kind of belied the rough, working class look Vin had to him for anyone who knew what those sunglasses cost. Glare cutting and dark, curved to the outside and Chris had seen Tanner shoot dead on with the sun in his eyes wearing them.

Any trace of the uncertainty in their private life was gone, Chris noted of Vin as he made his way to the fire escape on the lower of the two buildings, glancing over to see Vin well on his way up.

The ladder at the top was less than six feet of climbing and Chris checked it for rust, finding some, but it was solid enough and still well anchored into the side. His view at the top was blocked though, too much equipment, some of it obviously no longer in use, and the raised blockhouse of the interior access almost directly in front of him, the door itself in profile to the fire escape ladder. Asphalt and gravel crunched under his feet and a surprising amount of glass and trash although maybe not so surprising. The rooftop door was locked from the inside, but there were other protections against wind or rain or just prying eyes amid the used and replaced HVAC and venting units. He'd hate to think of anyone drunk trying to maneuver the fire escape but it was as secluded a space as he might expect to find.

He glanced over to see Vin, pacing the edge of the building opposite. There was less equipment there but one huge bank of venting units covered nearly the entire near side, meaning Vin would be nearly blind to anything happening on this roof. He took the front corner, checking the height of the ledge and crouching, leaning over at an angle that made Chris' heart beat a little faster, but Vin was sure footed and sure gripped. He looked up and saw Chris and made a chopping motion across his eyes -- no viable line of sight and no angle, as he'd suspected, and Chris nodded and headed to the front edge of his own building to check the angle. Vin would want to check it himself, but Chris tried to see it as he would, while waiting for Vin to climb down and back up.

Then whirled, a half cry of warning on his lips at a blur of movement caught in the corner of his eye, to see Vin take a running start and launch himself from the ledge to close the distance between the two buildings.

He landed hard but solidly into a crouch to absorb the shock through his legs and hands as he touched down, calm as a long jumper when he rose to brush the gravel from his hands.

"Jesus, Tanner!" Chris said both startled and impressed, or he would be if he could ever get his heart back into his chest where it belonged. "You think you've sprouted wings or something?"

Vin only grinned at him and glanced back. "Not that far."

"From there to here, maybe," Chris snapped. "Further from there down."

"Six feet maybe, ledge to ledge," Vin said with a shrug, ignoring the fact that he hadn't actually landed on the broad ledge but on the roof itself. He looked pleased though, a flush to his cheeks and a bright sparkle in his eyes when he pulled his glasses off to come to the front of the building.

"Adrenaline junkie," Chris groused, but over his startlement, he was impressed. Vin had the eye of an eagle and the steady instincts and footing of a mountain goat

"Said the pot," Vin said on a chuckle and Chris had to grin. Granted, his own tendencies didn't extend to leaping tall buildings, but he could be as ferocious in his addiction to risk as Vin.

Vin was all business again, pacing the roof and looking more pleased at what he found, tacking in on the further side and Chris crouched beside him. A few feet left or right made the difference between opening the overpass wide or being blocked by one or other of the sides of columns and sloped supports. Low enough and Vin could see pretty well to the other side and Chris marked what he could see also, for Buck and himself.

The height also gave him a better look at where surveillance might be set up, bare ground behind the Burger King at the end of the exit already sporting a couple of abandoned or parked cars as well as customers. JD would be able to see directly north but Vin could watch the street and if necessary they could put a man at the top of the ramp.

"Pretty open," Vin commented, getting to his feet again and putting on his sunglasses to examine the rooftop.

"Doesn't matter if there's no one to see," Chris said. "I doubt it gets busier at night. JD will be glad to have a bathroom and an extra large order of fries at close hand," he said with a grin and Vin laughed before checking out the abandoned equipment and housings, satisfied he had a clear line of sight all around.

"Helps that I can get up here coming in on the dock side," Vin said as they headed back to the ladder. "A couple of hours before. Sweet."

"Dress warm," Chris said, letting Vin go first over the side. It was sweet. Too often Vin found himself in spots where his back was exposed should anyone happen to look high. It would be nice to have this go right when the rest of the week had gone so badly.

Wednesday, 12:15 p.m., The Saloon, Denver

They were halfway through their lunch and Chris on his second beer when the rest of the team came pushing through the front doors, whatever serious conversations happening on the walk over getting dropped on seeing the pair of them. Buck had a grin that couldn't be resisted and Vin didn't try and even found an excess of energy surge through him when JD pushed past Buck to claim the seat next to Vin. It had only been three days, but it may as well have been months and it took Vin a moment to realize he was grinning foolishly at whatever the hell JD was so excited about.

So easy to forget that it wasn't just Chris who'd back him or be there for him. He wasn't even vaguely discomfited by the laying on of hands: Buck's reaching out briefly to mess with his hair the same way he so often did to JD before settling on the opposite side of Chris. Nathan was more formal, offering only his hand but covering Vin's with his other when Vin took it, white teeth flashing in welcome and a glad to see him grin that was all about them and not about the job. Josiah's big hands landed solidly on both shoulders to squeeze just a little, that rumbling "Good to see you, brother," settling so low and deep along Vin's spine it was likely to straighten his back just from the pride of it. And Ezra, who didn't touch Vin with anything but his eyes, his gaze raking over him in a quick assessment of mood and well-being. He smiled: a quick flash of gold and white, before he took the end seat of the table, settling back like lunch was just the excuse to make sure he could keep the rest of his team in line like an indulgent kindergarten teacher.

There were glasses of tea and soda and water already being brought to the table before they'd all settled, and Buck draping a familiar arm around the waist of their waitress while she gathered orders without the benefit of menus.

Vin had half an ear to what JD was saying: approval from Travis for some kind of high-end long distance surveillance devices that they were going to be field testing on Friday along with their standard equipment. JD was practically vibrating with the excitement of satellite bounces and residual echo filtration -- most of which Vin didn't understand save the part where if it worked as it should they might be able to get rid of the much hated and aggravatingly unreliable radio sets.

It was half lunch and half catch up, Vin hearing bits and pieces of the updates and day to day collection of information and assessment of the last forty-eight hours and swapping places with JD so he could tell Chris about his new toys. Vin leaned back and to watch his boss soak it all in like a hound gone one day too hungry.

"Any closer to a resolution of your current conflicts, Mr. Tanner?" Ezra leaned close to keep his question from carrying and Vin had only to turn his head slightly.

"Trying not to think on it," Vin answered after a moment, realizing he hadn't since the first day -- night -- pushing it back as other things had climbed to the front of his notably narrow focused view of things. But there it was again, right in front. "Thanks, Ez," he said with a wry twist of his lips.

"Apologies then," Ezra said but it wasn't sincere and Vin let out a chuckle on a whuff of sound that made Ezra grin more broadly.

"So, what's your source? Buck said this came out of the blue."

"More of the shadows and inclined to be sporadic even before now," Ezra said, speaking of his snitch. "We've managed to shut down so many lines of supply, my most reliable sources of information have taken up knitting, I do believe," he said. Vin nodded, not denying that Team 7, when they weren't quarreling with their own organization, actually had managed to close down several high traffic operations the previous year. The cost had been high on a lot of levels and he let his gaze fall to the table and the wet spot from his nearly empty beer bottle.

Too much to fight back what he'd been shoving down hard and fast since the previous spring and it didn't really surprise him that it would continue to seep upward like uncontained sewage.

"Anybody we've been working a bit?" he asked if only because his silence, while not unusual, could be read as something else since he'd opened the topic and he didn't want Ezra turning that sharp mind back toward paths Vin wasn't ready to tread on just yet.

"Not really. Could be a link back but it looks to be a small deal. No doubt we will find the merchandise in the back seat in a bowling bag," Ezra said and leaned away a bit so his food could be set down on the table.

Vin snagged a tortilla chip from Ezra's plate when his own plate was cleared and let his gaze drift as the table fell silent for a few moments while the first mouths full of food were taken and appreciated for their spicy wonder. The talk started up again almost immediately though but it was safe enough for Vin to drift back from actually participating, ordering an iced tea to replace the last of his lukewarm beer and glanced at Chris.

Yup, the boss was still there, leaning back just enough in his chair to seem relaxed, elbow on table and right hand bracing the side of his face with one finger extended up toward his temple and thumb supporting the curved side of his jaw. He was listening though, with that intense narrow-eyed gaze that meant he was filing facts and categorizing theories while Josiah talked, and the snatches of it Vin could actually hear had to do with the tape research. Josiah was narrow focused in his own way, puzzling over the whys as much as the whats and Vin would have liked to hear more of it. He was fascinated by the way Josiah could wrap his mind around the most twisted of personalities and come up with at least a segment of untangled motive and intents that could give the rest of them just enough to angle for at least a glimpse of outcomes or even approaches.

Like reading tracks, only Vin figured it was a lot harder than gaining fact from events, since so much of what Josiah tracked was like so many whiffs of smoke in a passing breeze.

But he couldn't hear enough to make sense of it at the moment and dropped back, figuratively, into contemplating the rest of the mess he found himself in. He'd be back on the job day after tomorrow and once more his gun would be the other half of the package needed to keep these men bitching another day.

And that was the crux of it. He'd never denied that his abilities with that long rifle had made the difference between life and death for these men and others, on occasion. He hadn't ever flinched at the thought of taking Hollinger out, save for the briefest flash of compassion for whatever demons drove any man to lash out at others.

The ice in his glass was melting, leaving a rim of almost clear above the amber darkness of the tea, condensation dripping along the smooth edge of the glass to puddle on the wooden table top. One band of clear and the rest all murky and if he moved it, lifted it to take a sip, it would all mix together again, that clarity sinking into the rest like it had never been.

He'd tried, really tried to think of any way to make what he'd done seem to have fewer sharp edges of completely wrong. If it had been someone he knew Hollinger had held to him like a shield, Vin wasn't sure he would ever have even contemplated pulling the trigger. If it had been Chris...

The noise rose and fell around him like the far distant thunders of summer, breath caught in his throat at the image, the idea of seeing Chris at the end of his sight, of seeing his face and Chris knowing it was him at the other end of the gun.

//Left temple.//

//Kill shot.//

He could see it as if it had happened because Chris would still be begging him to take the shot, to take them both out rather than let Hollinger or anyone threaten innocent lives for a cause that could never be balanced against their lives. Terrorism, pure and simple, what Chris had said, how he felt.

He'd have done it. He might never be able to live with it any more than he could live easily with it now, but he would have. He could see it even more clearly than the truth: the fast, clean entry of a bullet to Chris' brain, knew how his body would jerk, see the startled surprise on the face he knew better than his own, the snap of his head and drop when the brain ceased having anything to do with the body. It would come out the other side, probably...high velocity, and bone, for all its strength, couldn't keep a streamlined piece of lead contained. A second shot to Hollinger, cleaner than the real shot had been, to rip through his forehead, maybe smash the bridge of his nose, into the very center of what kept human beings upright and living, breathing. So clean the brain rarely had time to even allow the body to twitch. They just dropped. Signal lost like on one of the damn head sets.

What he should have done and didn't, that fraction of a second of hesitation saving Father Barrett's life as it wouldn't have saved Chris. Or Buck, JD, Ezra -- any of them and he'd have done it because they would understand. They would know it and forgive without ever being able to say the words. As Vin would. It would still hurt, there would still be anger but it would be understood.

And not because they held their lives cheaply, but because they valued others more. Which is how they could do what they did, why they did it, every day, risking all they had for people they didn't know. For people like Father Barrett.

They'd all stepped up ready to take that risk, make those decisions and didn't need to be asked -- but the priest hadn't, the folks of his parish hadn't. Maybe would or could if they were asked, if they thought of it, like the deacons who had tried to stop it. But he hadn't been able to ask Father Barrett that before making his decision. Before he took that shot.

Would you die for those people?

He thought Father Barrett would have said yes. He seemed like the kind of man who would, but they didn't get to ask him. Vin needed to ask him.

Needed to but not sure it would be a good idea and he looked around but it had only been moments. Only the flicker of Chris' eyes toward him indicated he'd seen anything. But it was something. Something he could do, or just think about doing which was a step ahead of feeling like he was caught in a trap of emotion and responsibility.

He pulled out his wallet, tossing enough on the table to cover his bill and Chris gave him a little nod. The others were close enough to finished and needed to get back. Chris leaned forward to talk to Buck a bit more quietly before getting to his feet, Vin moving up behind him to get their good-byes out of the way and sharing that one last grin with all of them when Chris said they'd see them Friday.

His building was quiet and they parked in front, Chris pulling his soft duffel from the back of the jeep. Most of the occupants gone to work or school except for Mrs. Walden who cracked the door of her first floor apartment just a little when she heard them and then nodded when she recognized them. "They said you hadn't been hurt," she said, barely opening her door but eyeing Vin as if she wanted to make sure. She barely came to his shoulder, thin white hair fluffed out under a knit cap and a heavy man's sweater wrapped around her thin shoulders. "On the news on Sunday. They said none of the officers were hurt. But I hadn't seen you." She reached out just barely to touch his chest.

"No, ma'am," Vin said, smiling at her and caught her hand as much to reassure her as to make sure her hands were warm. They were and bird-bone frail in his own. "I'm fine. We all are. You doing all right? Weather not bothering you much?" he asked, patting her hand and releasing it, and she smiled at him and then Chris.

"Warm enough. You leaving? We don't see you much," she asked and Vin watched Chris try to hide a smile.

"No, ma'am. Just splitting my time a bit. That ranch I told you about. You remember Chris? Working his ranch with him sometimes."

Mrs. Walden nodded to Chris, holding her sweater closed against the draft in the hall with one thin hand. "Saw you too. You look out for him, hear?"

"I will, Mrs. Walden," Chris promised solemnly. "We're gonna be running to the store in a bit. You need anything?"

"Maybe...some tea and those...wafers. Vin knows," she said and backed away, leaving the door cracked and returned a few moments later holding some crumpled one dollar bills and some change. She hesitated and then pressed the money into Chris' hand. "The pink ones."

"We'll get them, Ms. Walden," Vin said. "You go on back inside, cold out here."

"Glad you boys are okay. You do good," she said and the door closed.

Vin eyed Chris who was staring at the money and then looked up at Vin. "Pink ones."

"Pink. Strawberry," Vin said. "Sugar wafers." He led the way up the stairs.

"She's better than a watch dog," Chris said, shoving the money into his pocket.

"Sometimes. I can tell you she knows every time you come up here. Or anybody else."

Chris leaned against the wall while Vin pulled out his keys, studying the high-ceilinged landing. "Forgot what it's like to have neighbors."

Vin nodded, swinging the door open. "It's nice sometimes," he said catching the overhead. His own apartment was chill but not unbearable and he nudged the thermostat up, laying his hand over the radiator. "You want coffee?"

"Yeah, but I'll make it...need help?"

Vin shook his head and headed to the bedroom, picking up Chris' bag as he went. He almost wished Chris weren't here. It wasn't as if he were moving his life entirely to the ranch, just some things, for comfort, mind already cataloguing what clothes, what else -- he had things at the ranch. Quite a lot actually: Extra boots, shaving kit. Jeans and shirts, but few work clothes other than what he occasionally wore home.

Two suits in the closet and he pulled the grey one, laying it out on the bed, then cleared half of two drawers, laying the stacks of clothes out before consolidating one drawer to leave the second drawer and one of the smaller top drawers in his dresser for Chris.

It felt even stranger to be putting Chris' clothes away: folded t-shirts and jeans, socks, fitting them into the drawer carefully, like they were glass.

"Won't break, Vin," Chris said and Vin turned around, a little startled to find Chris leaning against the door frame, two mugs of coffee in his hands. "You put 'em away at the ranch sometimes."

"I know," Vin said taking the coffee and sipping it: sweet enough and with milk. He set the cup on the dresser top and finished putting Chris' clothes up, then sat on the bed to drink his coffee while Chris packed his clothes into the emptied bag. Task done he closed it up and moved Vin's suit to hang on the door and set the bag down beside it before taking up the better half of the bottom of the bed, laying on his side to study Vin.

"Anything else from Buck?"

Chris shook his head. "Travis took the list but other than this thing Friday, they're still working on what we gave them last night. If they were going to extend the suspensions, we'd have heard by now."

"Wasn't exactly thinking of that, but yeah. We would have."

"Harlan still bothering you?" Chris asked and Vin felt a mild shock run through him.

"No. God, no, Chris...it's nothing--"

Chris dropped his gaze and sipped at his coffee. "Okay. But there's you quiet and you...gone. Places I can't follow."

Vin didn't quite know what to say to that and pushed off the bed, leaving his cup on the dresser top and looking out the window to his own fire escape. "Ain't no place I can go you can't follow..." he said after a moment. "I think I'm just trying to tread water here for a bit, though."

Chris didn't answer, but when Vin looked he could see the careful expression of a calm in place. Too calm, too...remote. The kind of look Chris got when he was listening to something out of politeness or form, but had already made up his mind.

"I should get to the store," Vin said. "Won't take me long."

Chris only nodded and sat up digging in his pocket to give him the money from Mrs. Walden.

"Want anything?"

"No. I'm good until you get back," Chris said.

Vin fled. He walked but he didn't look back and he didn't even think until he was down the stairs and outside the building.

He didn't bother taking the jeep, just walked the four blocks to the small market to pick up the few things he knew he needed and then put half of it back if only because he wasn't sure when he would be back.

They'd go back to the ranch tonight, stay through tomorrow and then into the office. Maybe back to the apartment on Friday night depending on when they got finished with the op. He went ahead and added milk back to his basket. A six pack of the Mexican beer Chris liked and the tea and wafers for Mrs. Walden. His hands hovered over a package of steaks and with a sigh he dropped them in as well, grabbed a couple of potatoes and a head of lettuce.

It still all fit in one bag and Vin walked back, stopping at Mrs. Walden's to give her her cookies and tea and her change. She had a little waxed paper package holding two banana muffins. Usually she only gave him one.

Chris wasn't immediately in evidence when Vin put the food away. He stuck his head into the bedroom and found him, stretched out on the bed, body relaxed and eyes closed. So deeply asleep, he didn't hear Vin at all, didn't notice him until Vin sat on the edge of the bed. He came awake with a start.

"May as well go on back to sleep. No place to be just now," Vin said.

"Didn't mean to fall asleep."

"Must have needed it."

"Probably," Chris said and shifted over a bit, tugging on the shoulder of Vin's jacket until he lay down as well, unable to stop the grin on his face at Chris' expression when he was indulged. It was indulgence, both of them fully dressed, in their jackets, laying on a bed in the middle of the day. "Did you get Mrs. Walden's pink wafers?" he asked when Vin lay back, head resting on Chris' outstretched arm.

"Did. She sent up banana muffins."

"They any good?"

"Not bad. No nuts."

Chris rolled in, laying his arm across Vin's stomach, face pressed against the side of Vin's neck. Nothing more than that, and Vin closed his eyes, thinking he could probably go to sleep as well: fully dressed, middle of the day, with Chris this close.

Days off and he could have this, anytime...not have to call Chris to see if he wanted to get together, even when the answer had almost always been yes. Head home at the end of the day and if he left first, know Chris would be following, heading the same place he was. Here. The ranch.

The places didn't matter. The only change was that they'd end up together at the end of the day, in the mornings...one place or the other.

"I think..." he said carefully and felt Chris lift his head a little to see his face. "I've been looking for the wrong thing...some place. To settle some place. Tracking the wrong trail. Kept looking for some place to be, some where to..."

"To fit. To belong? You can want that, Vin," Chris said. "I did. Do."

"How's the hunt going?" Vin asked.

Chris' arm tightened across his stomach and Vin rested his arm on Chris', fingers curling around his biceps. Chris' lips pressed to his throat, under his ear. "I think I'm done hunting. How 'bout you?"

"Well, you know, when I was bounty hunting...the pay off only comes when you bring 'em in. I think I've been brought in."

Chris chuckled against his throat. "You going to hit me if I say, 'welcome home'?"

Vin shook his head and rolled to his side, running his hand up Chris' arm to his neck and into the thick, soft, gold of his hair. The green eyes were crinkled at the corners, the generous mouth curved upward. "Think I'm done treading water. Thinking about striking out for shore."

The second welcome home from Chris didn't have any words.

## ~Chapter Seven~

Thursday, 3:30 p.m., Larabee Ranch

Chris wore his cell phone all day Thursday, even when they saddled up the horses and headed out along the fence line, before lunch. Suspended and on call -- by choice and Vin couldn't fault Chris for it but was glad when he didn't get called. They left their plans loose, one errand only, later in the day, to meet with the lawyer Chris had found to replace Harlan.

There was no argument about it from Vin and he worked hard to make sure nothing showed but agreement. And still Chris knew he was hiding something, which gave Vin equal parts worry and amazement.

He shouldn't be surprised that Chris could read him so well. It's part of what this was, after all. What had led them to this place in their lives, drawing them together as forcefully as rivers were drawn to seas.

For someone who had spent his whole life trying to avoid choices he couldn't see the clear edges of, Vin was finding the steady rush unnerving. The only thing making it bearable as all was the steady presence of Chris Larabee at his back, literally and figuratively. And he was having a difficult time realizing that his lover, his partner, had made this terrifying leap not once but twice.

Promises were made to be kept: Vin Tanner believed that with everything he was. They were never to be made lightly, never to be broken if humanly possible. He'd made very few promises in his life and most of them had been made to ghosts. He'd asked for few as well: tried to let Chris know he didn't need them, expect them or want them.

Except he wasn't sure how true the last one was any longer.

The shifting of clothes and the appointment with the lawyer were the only tangible things to indicate how much things had changed. And there were moments when Vin felt like they hadn't changed at all. He was as nervous as he'd been on his first date, worse than the first time he'd actually sighted on a live target, only two weeks fresh out of the sniper school at Ft. Benning. Graduated, got top marks, and shipped out two days after the celebratory binge on a weekend pass that had left him sick for the entire trip overseas. He and Craig Henry, full of pride and spit: the Army had made them a team, shipped them together, and they'd been skittish as colts let loose in a field.

They'd done good on their first mission and Craig had managed to find a way to make them friends as well as partners. The Army had seen to that as well. Snipers worked in pairs. Shared the responsibility or the guilt, which ever came up first. They'd managed to meet the sniper mantra of "one shot, one kill" twice: once for each of them.

The friendship lasted all of six weeks. It might have lasted longer, but it wasn't like the US Army was the only country to have snipers. The only thing good about it was that Vin knew for a fact that Craig hadn't suffered at all. He'd been dead from the minute the bullet entered his brain. The man who killed him was dead only moments later.

Nothing was ever said, not even to Craig's family, and certainly not to Vin, except by their C.O. because after all, they weren't in a war. They were...peacekeepers. They'd tried teaming him up again, finding him another spotter, and Vin had spotted for other snipers. None of them took, no more than the mission, the job, the target.

The Army think-tanks thought that having a partner to share the responsibility was a good thing...but they didn't cover what happened when one half of the team was left to deal with the loss of the other half.

Vin had never found a very good answer either. Or a reason to try it again. Close, once or twice...or he thought so.

The new lawyer was an older woman; second career, she said. Carmen Montgomery, who was no more a trial lawyer than Vin was and dealt mostly in estate law, which this was. They'd spent no more than twenty minutes with her and she'd been pleasant but fast.

She asked Vin about his will, which he didn't have.

Even more than wanting Chris to have his land, it hit Vin that he actually had someone to leave something to at all. He'd never given much thought to what would happen to his property if he died. He had a life insurance policy through the bureau that he'd left to the community center in Purgatorio from the beginning and never changed it. He supposed his land would go back to the state: neither piece large enough or valuable enough to even try and turn them over to a park service. As far as he knew there was no other family, no relatives that were close enough to Earl Tanner or his daughter to worry about, or even his grandmother. Carmen offered to do a search on marriage licenses to see if there was a record of her maiden name and Vin declined.

She wouldn't find one. He'd looked, checked on it when he'd inherited the house. Common law wife, the county clerk had hazarded.

If nothing else, his preferences in partners would stop the family tradition of producing bastards.

Which left Chris, or the boys. He took the set of questions Montgomery offered, meant to help him decide what to do with it all, then wandered back out to the waiting room so Chris could finish his business. Montgomery didn't put Vin as on guard as Harlan did, or maybe it was the office -- which was modest and decorated more like someone's sitting room than a showplace for a designer.

The ranch felt the same way, even though most of the furniture matched. Somehow, Sarah and Chris had managed to find furnishings to meet both their likes, sturdy, well-built furniture in leather and simple prints, most of the rooms painted lighter earth tones above the paneling. Chris' room was the only one he said he'd actually changed, repainting the pale blue with grey and the white trim with dark green, nearly black.

Vin's apartment was mostly white walls and few pictures, furniture picked up at Goodwill or discount houses. Comfortable, but it had been bought more with an eye to cost than anything. He was comfortable there, had been for years, but mostly it was a place to sleep, to store his things. It was homey in its own way, but he'd never bothered much with decorating, or planning a "look" for it.

Or for anyone else.

He thought about it all the way back to the ranch, glad Chris knew him well enough to respect his silence, grateful that in this, at least, with them, Chris was showing a whole lot more patience than he might otherwise have done. Other than his life with his grandfather, a few years in foster homes, Vin had never lived with anyone. He'd stayed in the enlisted men's barracks while in the service, sometimes sharing a large room with twenty other guys or more, but after opting out, he'd found the apartment in Purgatorio and hadn't moved. He'd spent precious little time there the first year or so; hunting bounties had taken him across the country and back again and sometimes it was weeks before he made it back to Denver. He'd settled more when he joined the Marshals, finally spending a little money on a good bed and a few other luxuries...like a microwave, a few prints on the walls...built the bookcases himself. Made it more his own.

Reaching the house he got out but hesitated. "I'm gonna head to the barn," he said, without even stepping foot on the porch.

"You want company?" Chris asked, leaning on the hood of the Ram, watching Vin with barely masked concern.

Vin shrugged. "If you want," he said and headed around the house.

Chris didn't follow immediately and Vin tried not to think at all. Walking into the house...it would be partly his now, but it wasn't familiar -- or not in the way his own apartment was. That Chris shared it with him, wanted him there, made a difference, but he hadn't quite made the leap from "his" to "theirs".

Sire was pleased enough to be lead into the barn to be brushed down again, nosing Vin's hair and his jacket, making fun of Legius when the big black dropped his head over the rail.

The soft brush was Sire's favorite, muscles rippling and he'd shimmy like a cat when Vin brushed over his neck and across his shoulders. "Should have been a dog, boy. You'd love that life," Vin told him. "Think that's what it was...maybe you were a dog in another life."

He knew Chris was there: Legius' whicker alerting him if he hadn't already been half expecting Chris anyway.

"Next time, he'll come back as a pig," Chris commented and Vin glanced at him and grinned.

"Probably," Vin said, putting the brush away and leading the horse back out to the corral. Chris opened the gate and Vin turned him out, both of them leaning on the gate to watch Sire torment and preen in front of Legius, who ignored him.

 

Chris folded his arms over the top rail, quiet for a few minutes. "You know...as much as Buck and JD give us a hard time. I really can't read your mind."

Vin chewed on his lower lip and nodded. "I know. I'm all right, Chris. No second thoughts, although I probably should have...you too. We still don't know that Randall isn't after us. This'll make it easier if he wants to build a case."

"I wasn't planning on inviting him to the housewarming," Chris said dryly.

"I don't know...bet he drinks really good whiskey. Might bring us a bottle."

"Probably a teetotaler," Chris said after a moment.

"And rose to rank of Commander? Is that possible?" Vin asked, feigning shock.

Chris chuckled and pushed up, then settled his hands on Vin's shoulders, rubbing gently. "Can't do anything about it, and Travis is handling it."

Vin nodded but then twisted, putting his back to the fence so he could see Chris. "I know...but...I'm kind of surprised you aren't in the middle of it."

Chris looked out over the fence toward the fields. "I kind of want to be but..." he braced his foot on the lowest rail, calf pressing to Vin's leg and gripped the top rail so they were close. "You know, if Randall is after my job...my position...I'm thinking it's not the worst thing that could happen," Chris said quietly. "I put off...a lot of things before...with Sarah."

Vin almost held his breath. Chris wasn't looking at him directly, eyes seeing something on the horizon, distant, and Vin couldn't miss the sadness there, the loss.

"Kept waiting for the right time...for something to happen to let me know it was time to change my life. When it happened..."

Vin's hand covered Chris' on the rail, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand. Chris would never be shed of this grief and Vin didn't mind it really. He only wondered if it were wrong to feel good about the fact that Chris would share it with him on occasion.

"I'd like to think I learn from my mistakes, Vin. I'll fight for our jobs if I have to, if only because I think the policies are wrong. But this job...it's not my life. Not our lives. A big chunk of it... and God knows, I don't think I'll ever find anything that suits me so well, but it's not all ...and it's not even close to being the most important thing in my life. Not any more," he said and finally looked Vin in the eye.

Vin returned his gaze, a smile tugging at the edge of his lips. "That's a pretty big...commitment," he said after a moment. The urge to say something to lighten the mood was strong, to make a joke, but it wasn't a joke and while Chris would take it, probably smile and laugh, Vin didn't want to cheapen the moment...or give Chris any reason to think he didn't feel as deeply. "I've never really lived with anyone. Not long term. Never thought it was...something I'd have. Or want," he said honestly. "I want it to be...right, I guess."

"It's right, Vin. As right as anything I've ever known. Kind of took me by surprise, it was so easy."

Vin grinned and dropped his gaze, then turned in to face out over the fields. It took only the slightest movement from Chris for Vin to find himself embraced, held tight against Chris' chest. "Yeah. Nothing quite like a gut punch to get your attention."

Chris' lips were warm against his throat and Vin dropped his head back. "Walked into it, did you?"

"Eyes wide open," Vin agreed. "I want this too. Don't doubt it...it's not about you."

"It better be about me," Chris growled against his neck, then moved his mouth up to the tender spot below Vin's ear. "And you. We've got the rest of our lives, partner. You don't have to figure it out all at once."

"Just trying to keep up."

"But see," Chris said and nipped at his jaw, hand sliding low across Vin's hips. "That's where age and experience come in." He rocked Vin a little: a slow, shallow sway, hips pressed tight to Vin's ass.

"Your age and my experience?" Vin asked and was rewarded by another growl and then laughter.

"Something like that, yeah," Chris said. "Think you can handle that much?"

The suggestion was too obvious, the opening left deliberately and Vin could only shake his head. "Jeez, Larabee...good thing I took pity on you, if you've been handing lines like that out all this time."

"Doesn't say much about you that you bought it, does it?" Chris shot back.

"Lock, stock and barrel, cowboy," Vin admitted and turned around to grip the open sides of Chris' coat and kissed him long and deep, until they were both breathless and hard. "Any other ideas you'd like to sell me on?"

"Thinking of a long term contract."

"With interest?"

"Lots of interest. Prime rate." Chris' gaze was dark and Vin mentally calculated the relative distance from where they stood to the barn and to the house. The barn was closer.

"I'm open to discussion," he said, softly. "Long term sounds about right."

"Told you it was easy."

Friday, 6:45 a.m., Federal Building, 8th floor

There were "Personal and Confidential" packets waiting on both Chris and Vin's desks when they hit the office that morning. Their badges waited for them along with the "Return to Duty" vouchers that would allow them to pick up their service issue guns.

Chris watched Vin through the glass walls of his office, smiling to himself when Vin fingered the not particularly impressive badge and then slid it into his wallet and clipped his ID to his windbreaker. Whatever else was bothering Vin, at least he seemed glad to be back on the job.

Chris was too, but he figured he'd be regretting it by the end of the day after a glance at the work piled on his desk.

Settling that in the back of his brain, Chris started going through the piles of notes and reports that Buck had left on his desk, including the operations notes Buck had worked out for the meet this afternoon. He had an appointment with Travis at 8:15 and then the ops review. Glancing at the clock he realized that Nathan and JD would be in any minute to move into the area for a long day of surveillance.

"I'm gonna head down to the armory, get my guns and equipment checked out," Vin said as the clock crept toward eight. "Be back in time for the review."

"You'll probably run into Nathan and JD. Tell them we'll be on the horn at ten sharp," Chris said, glancing at the calendar to double-check what Buck had set up.

Vin nodded. "Good luck with Travis," he said and smiled again before heading to the elevators.

The only other person Chris had time to say two words to was Josiah, who showed up only minutes after Vin left, greeting Chris with a broad toothy grin. "Good to have you back, boss. The inmates have been running the asylum."

"And that would be different from any other time, how?" Chris shot back, chuckling.

"Ah, Mr. Larabee, you lend us maturity and sobriety, responsibility and purpose. We have missed you sorely."

"I've been gone three days, Josiah -- and your next annual review isn't until next January."

Josiah laughed at that and settled his coffee and breakfast on his desk. "I know the day is full, and we have some priorities vying for our attentions, but if you could find some time, maybe before we roll out…I've got some theories on Hollinger and the messages Vin got, I'd like to toss out."

"Anything applying to this thing today?" Chris asked, instantly alert.

"I don't believe so. But I think we may be correct in thinking Hollinger was working alone. The other message, the threat, may be along the same lines…but I don't actually think it had anything to do with Hollinger. It's spare rationale though," Josiah said.

"All right, if not before then after, Josiah. Don't let me forget. I've got to head upstairs but I'll see what I can squeeze in. Me or everyone?"

"At this point, I'd take all the input I can get. I may be over analyzing."

Chris gave him a blatantly skeptical look. "Put it together."

"I'll keep it tight," Josiah promised and Chris grinned at him, taking him at his word. Josiah could wax poetical on his theories given half a chance, but today would be concise.

Chris made himself go over Buck's operational notes before he left for Travis' office. He appreciated Buck pushing the meet out, waiting for the team to be whole but it was a lot to cover, take in and he'd have to let Buck take the lead on it, if only because his head had been in the right place for the last three days.

Not that his own had been in a wrong one, but it hadn't been focused here for more than a few hours, too tangled up in trying to get he and Vin sorted out, but he felt like they'd gotten closer. Not totally, despite Vin's easy and sincere reassurances. There was more there, under the surface, Vin too quiet, even for him, sorting it out in his head.

The blessing was, that no matter what else Vin had rumbling around in his brain, he'd be spot on focused today. Chris needed to be too.

He made a few notes, suggestions and he wanted them taken that way and dropped the packet on Buck's desk before heading upstairs. He didn't have to wait more than a minute for Travis' admin, Alice, to let him in. "He stepped down the hall. Be back in a minute you want some coffee, Chris?"

"That would be good, Alice. Thanks," Chris said and she smiled at him in a way that wasn't all motherly and Chris grinned, then shook his head as she left him.

Travis returned first and found Chris wandering his office, reading over commendations and certificates. "You should have more of those," he said and Chris glanced over at him before taking a seat.

"I'd rather have the arrest count." He got a brief flicker of a smile from his boss, who then slid another envelope at him.

"Preliminary results. Published report won't be out until next week."

Chris sighed and opened it, thanking Alice when she came in with his coffee. He skimmed the overall results, feeling his jaw tighten, but he waited for Alice to leave. "Looks like he wants to overhaul the entire Bureau," he said.

"Something like it," Travis agreed, folding his hands over each other and looking out the window to the Denver skyline. "I had Alice pull other filed reports over the last year. If it helps, you aren't the only agent he's gone after. It explains a lot when you know one of his heroes is Eliot Ness. I can't fault him for wanting us to be better agents, better people. We should be 'gentlemen' about our duties. A higher standard. I don't necessarily agree with what he thinks of as indicators of 'better'."

Chris read aloud from the brief, his own incredulity tainting his tone. "'Personal sentiment has no place in the field of operations. When functioning as representatives of the US Government, our agents must be held to the highest possible moral, ethical, and personal standards. No exceptions.' Jesus," Chris said softly. "Is he writing a report or running for congress?"

"Larry McCall, thinks his ambitions may run that high. And so you know...I did look over your notes. So did McCall. After he registered a written objection to Randall's line of questioning during the review. They didn't part on the best of terms."

"I take it we didn't make a friend?" Chris said with a particularly satisfied smile.

Travis grinned back at him and got up. "No, not really. We have what could be categorized as something just short of an all out war. I'm going to ask all my teams to make sure case files are up to date and tighter than a nun's knickers. I know you have an op today, and other things on the back burner, but make it a priority. He may be just bastard enough to launch another IA investigation and you...your team. You're vulnerable."

"We've come through them before," Chris said closing the file and slipping it back in the envelope.

"Yes, you have...and I want you to come through this one. You especially," he said, his gaze lingering on Chris' face for a long moment. "He can request transfers and McCall will deny them for as long as he can...but it can only go on for so long before it looks like unreasonable resistance."

"He'd be an idiot to bust up the SOG teams here," Chris said.

"A very smart idiot. Off the record, McCall thinks part of what Randall wants is his slot, and McCall isn't that far from retirement," Travis said quietly. "But he was instrumental in getting the SOG teams up and running, something Randall seems to have forgotten."

Chris nodded. "I had too."

"He likes it that way. McCall was a field agent for a lot of years, and he knows that results are what matters. Procedures to, but he has...no objections to the way you run your team. And few about how you run your life," Travis added.

Chris took the sideways voicing of support for what it was. Both Travis and McCall. It took some reordering of his thinking to realize that his team's success had a lot to do with the men who routinely ran interference for them. "I'll do my best not to disappoint him, or you," he said after a moment.

"You do your job and let us take care of the rest, Larabee. Who's backing you today?"

Chris took a sip of his coffee, finding it a bit cool. "Team 3. On stand-by. It's a pretty small deal. Buck gave you the prelim?"

Travis nodded. "I'll look for a report on Monday."

Meeting over and Chris got up. "If it goes clean, I'll have it by the time I leave today. You'll let me know if I can do anything?"

"Just your job," Travis said, not lightly dismissing the offer, but Chris understood the message. This was politics. It was inevitable that he'd get tangled up in some of it, but Orrin Travis never forgot why he'd hired Chris and it hadn't been to craft Bureau guidelines, only to raise the bar a little.

Chris picked up his coffee, got a nod from Travis and headed downstairs again, still worried but breathing easier.

Buck was in and Ezra on time for a change, although he wouldn't be there long. Josiah already had the speaker phone set up in the conference room. He found his own kit and gear in his office; Buck had brought it in from the locker rooms.

The next couple of hours were almost a blur of details, Richard McMillan and his crew coming in just in time for the dial-up conversation with Nathan and JD. Buck had street maps and markers on the desk, Nathan supplying details while Richard split his team in half to cover the east and west approaches from a few blocks away and ready to drop Vin off on the backside. Vin hesitated over Dan Richards' offer to spot for him then shook his head. The distance was only a couple of hundred feet and clear enough. Three spots on the warehouse side that could be covered and Dan agreed.

Chris sat back and let Buck run it, making no comment when his suggestions were taken, or when they weren't. It was style as much as efficiency and Buck was slightly bolder, but he was all business. Ezra would come in from the overpass and take the curve of the exit ramp in and under rather than coming from in town. Josiah and Dan Richards would hold back at the warehouses and Buck and Chris on the front side in the recessed gated front of the old bank building. The overpass itself would protect Ezra on either side, and the sellers would have to approach the way Ezra came in or from east or west, meaning they couldn't be missed. It was as sweet as Chris could have wanted with no blind approaches. It was as smoothly laid out as a training op.

Even after they broke up, Chris stared at the maps, feeling like he was missing something.

"Bulldog got your butt, stud?" Buck asked him

"Maybe just wired. Clean."

"Yeah, it is. Sweet and clean. Jesus, Chris, given some of the locations we've had to try and cover, we were about due for something that would break right."

Chris flashed him a smile. "Could be. You get used to it being harder than this..."

"It's still more guns than we have," Buck pointed out.

"That supposed to make me feel better?" Chris asked.

Buck chuckled. "Well, if you want it harder, we go in unarmed and ask them nicely to hand over their guns. You get to take point on that one."

"Ezra's expecting two?"

Buck nodded. "That's what his contact said. Driver. Seller. Wondering if we should put someone in the car with him?" he asked seriously.

"Yeah," Chris said, deciding fast and flipping his own cell to call Ezra before he could leave the garage.

It took some doing but Buck didn't disagree, and Josiah was amenable.

"I know you wanted to talk--" Chris said.

"It'll hold. I like the odds better for Ezra, too," Josiah said, fully understanding. "I can mull it over some more on the way."

Updates had to go out but it would still work, McMillan not having a problem with sending a second member of his team to back up Dan on the warehouse side. And that was the only change.

They spent time gearing up, Vin finishing first so he could ride out with Team 3, black camo-utility pants packed with clips and his rifle assembled then broken down again. He'd be a shadow against the asphalt roof, hair tucked under his cap as he took Buck's teasing for the T-shirt and long sleeved turtle-neck he wore: padding under the vest he'd put on before his climb.

Chris got a few minutes with Vin, pre-wiring JD's new satellite radio from the unit in the hip-side pocket of Vin's pants, up along and under his shirts so the wire wouldn't snag either arm or gun, or get nudged off when Vin put his vest on. Vin squirmed to settle it make sure he had enough slack in the wire to be able to move and not drive himself crazy with the gear riding his skin. He dropped too, fast and hard, to make sure it wouldn't pull out. They would still be using shoulder units and headsets for the op: Predictable failure better than new equipment none of them had really tried yet save in the office -- which amazingly enough, had worked despite the steel and electronics. JD was pretty excited about it, able to get a "ready" light off Vin even miles away.

No more than a squeeze on his shoulder as Vin picked up gun case and vest to meet his ride and Chris didn't hear from him again until they were moving too and closing on the site, two hours before the meet.

It had been quiet. Nathan walked the street in casual clothes, trying to see any pockets of activity hidden by buildings and came up clean. There was activity right at five p.m. as what few offices were there closed and locked up, workers heading for the bus lines. The sun stayed high enough to keep it bearably warm with jackets.

The alcove was out of the wind anyway, when it rose, Buck's long legs stretched out along the stone steps keeping watch north and Chris watching south. He glanced up from time to time, just able to see the stone facade of the parapet where Vin was tucked in. He could see the Burger King too, but not the van.

It was the hardest part, to wait for this; minutes crawling by marked only by intermittent check-ins and Chris reminded himself every time not to answer on the call for "Leader 7-1" and got nudged by Buck when the call for 7-2 came in.

And finally, finally, Vin called in to let them know Ezra and Josiah were on their way in and everyone tightened up, hunkered down and let the adrenaline start flowing steadily into their veins.

The big Lincoln purred into the street with little sound other than the hum of rubber on the street, Josiah handling it like a pro as he pulled past the overpass and backed the big car in up against the left shoulder and pylons to wait. For the next fifteen minutes the only chatter on the radio were reports from Vin or Nathan on approaching traffic and it was sparse. The street lights flickered and bloomed into life too early: the dull pinkish glow on the ones working looking faint and feeble in the greyish pre-dusk lighting. The half-hour mark hit and everyone tensed up again every time a car approached. The only real activity was in the parking lot of the Burger King and the diner down the street, and Chris lay a hand on Buck's arm when the man started to tap out a staccato foot tap as his nervousness got the better of him.

"Three-three to seven-one. We've got a van approach North side coming in between 7-4's location and the opposite street."

Buck acknowledged it. "Seven-four, you got scope to check it? You locked up tight there?"

"Roof access is jam-barred," Vin said of the door ram he'd used to keep the roof top door from being opened from inside while his back was to it. "Fire-escape's open though."

"We can watch it 7-4," Richard McMillan assured them from their position near the opening between where Vin was perched and the warehouses on the back side.

"Much obliged, 3-1," Vin said and Chris grinned.

"That boy is so polite..." Buck said softly, grinning too and Chris felt a little easier knowing Vin was covered. A constant worry when Vin was so often stationed places where his back couldn't be watched and damned hard to get to him sometimes if there was trouble.

Another fifteen minutes and Chris glanced at a Buck with a frown, starting to think it wasn't going to happen. Buck was chewing on his mustache, eyeing Chris, then the street again.

The check-in rounded out again, making it as far as 3-4 when there was an ear-splitting whine across their radios. Chris swore as he yanked the earpiece out, wincing at the persistent buzzing and the ring that remained. It was a high pitched squeal of sound, and Buck fought with his, gritting his teeth to try and get through to JD to find out what the problem was. Static followed until Chris could barely hear JD's voice trying to break through.

And then the high-pitched snap and whine of rifle fire sounded sharply. Chris was on his feet in a flash and out of the alcove, knowing the sound of that rifle and looking up then over to see what the hell Vin was firing at. He saw nothing save the splintering of concrete from the overpass where bullets hit it with deadly force. He could hear Buck calling the op, staying close to Chris' back as they made their way down the street, guns drawn, Chris fumbling for his ear piece again. The surveillance van was approaching fast, horn blaring.

"Explosives on the bridge!! Clear it!! Clear it!!" Buck was yelling, echoing the report he was getting from Nathan over the headset and Chris looked up, trying to see and only saw Josiah step out of the Lincoln, gun drawn. "Josiah, Clear!! The bridge is rigged!!" Buck screamed and Josiah heard him, ducked down enough to tell Ezra and they were both out and moving. Chris stared upward at the bridge to see it, what they hadn't actually seen before, or noticed, and following the pattern trace of Vin's bullets to where the packet rested at the upper support. Then across the street to see the thin muzzle of Vin's rifle still pushed out beyond the parapet.

Seconds only, to warn anyone and he caught the shimmer-glint of a car on the overpass before the sound of thunder on top of them hit him. The blast was big enough to knock he and Buck off their feet, to rock the van and send Josiah and Ezra down to the street under a cloud of dust and rubble and expanding air so hot it burned Chris' skin. There was a long, drawn-out wailing of a horn as the overpass gave, the car above not making it out of the danger zone. It slid back with caving concrete, tail first. A second explosion as the gas tank on the falling car burst on colliding with the twisted steel and concrete.

And Ezra and Josiah were still in there somewhere. Chris was breathing too fast, he knew, but he rolled and got to his feet, dizziness making his steps unsteady. Buck was up and moving and even with the ringing in his ears, Chris could hear Nathan shouting.

Ezra they found at the edge, to the side of what was left of the overpass, having made it around the corner and avoiding the worst of the car explosion. He was singed and concussed, barely able to keep to his feet even with Buck's arm around him, to pull him up and away from the very real threat of the gas tank on the Lincoln going as well as the heat intensified.

Chris blanked his mind, trying for a solid breath of clean air as he followed Nathan, putting his back to the heat and the scent of burning oil and rubber and steel. He grit his teeth and then forced himself to think of Josiah, running toward him and how far from the car and how far the blast might have pushed him, down or out and there...thank God, there.

"Nathan!!" he yelled seeing the big man, face down, brown jacket almost grey, half lost under concrete dust and debris and Chris had enough of his wits about him to check for a pulse, sucking in hot, dust-filled air when he found it and coughed it up again. There was a wedge of concrete and what looked like part of the front fender of the Lincoln laying across his legs, or maybe the fender was keeping it from crushing those same legs.

It was like a fucking war zone and Chris had seen enough to know, and no idea where or how this had been done. Or why.

More sirens on the approach as Nathan dropped too, on his knees, checking and rechecking and Chris eyed the Lincoln warily. "Nate, we need to move him," he said giving the man the precious seconds it took to make sure Josiah was breathing. A glance up and Chris swallowed: The other car was burning still and who ever had been in it had had no chance. Could have been anyone: businessman, mother with her kids and he was suddenly sick... and dizzy, holding it together and in with a hand to his mouth. He barely heard Nathan ordering Buck to take him back, watch his head, and there were other hands there to help Nathan, from Team 3. Ambulances and rescue units on the way in, screaming and blasting noise in and above the roaring sound of the fire and the still crumbling, sliding mound of debris. Chris swallowed bile and his nausea to see JD with Ezra, holding a cloth to the stunned agent's head and Buck's jacket around Ezra.

The air was clearer and Chris took it in hungrily, looking up, still seeing Vin's rifle...the muzzle resting there and he blinked, looking around. How long? Vin should be down but his rifle was there... He stared up at the building and toward the alley, seeing the sign again, on the glass at the corner, some part of it registering in his brain like a sharp case of deja vu. *Worship services Sunday 8 a.m. and 10 a.m., Wednesday 7:00 p.m.* Publishers who held services...and his mind wrapped around it.

Then he lost it, the thunder rumble coming again and he looked back, wondering if the car had gone, and saw Nathan look up but not toward the overpass -- across the street.

The facade cracked, the ground shuddered like from an earthquake. Chris grabbed Buck's arms as the marble facing cracked and split and a big chunk of the corner parapet rocked and swayed and then fell, smashing down and sending stone splinters out in all directions.

"No," Chris whispered, protest and prayer all in one and then he was moving as the top of the building started to collapse in on itself. His eyes were fixed on the slim line of steel of the muzzle of Vin's rifle until it slid forward and tumbled to hit the sidewalk and shatter as the building shuddered and rocked and then imploded. "No!!"

The glass on the lower levels shook and blew out, Chris still driving forward, fighting Buck as the debris fell like rain, shrapnel like hailstones, and the top floor disappeared, caving into the second.

"Nonononononooo!" Chris screamed it, even with Buck's arms so tight around his chest he shouldn't be able to breathe, wrestling with him, pulling him back and Chris struck out, swung, connected with some part of Buck's anatomy but not hard enough or vital enough to make him let go. The rifle was down, broken and Vin...he was...on the roof. On the roof that wasn't there any more.

It was the concussion that drove him down again, Buck half over him as gas lines and electrical lines mixed and mingled in ways they shouldn't have and the last of the glass gave way in an explosive concussion of sound and force and heat.

"Chris! Chris!" Buck again, dragging him back, pinning arms and legs like a wrestler. "He had time! He had time to get down!!"

"No. No..." Chris shook his head, knowing if Vin had gotten down he'd be here. Only he wasn't...

And even fighting Buck Chris knew he wouldn't be able to get to Vin, get to the building, get to anyplace that made any sense...

"He wouldn't leave his rifle..." he said, as if that explained it all, staring at the stock and barrel. Just small pieces of debris among the larger ones, amidst the burning smell and the heat and dust thick enough to make Chris' eyes water and his throat close up, until he could neither see nor breathe.

And never wanted to again.

It had been a stupid plan. From the first, she'd thought that, knew it, expected better of the man she sometimes called boss and more often fucked. But he was a man and she could only blame herself for believing he could be any smarter than his balls and his ego would permit him to be

And he did have balls, she admitted, but that didn't take make up for the rest.

It might have worked. Hauer had spotted in on the van from the moment it pulled in. Checked it and confirmed it when the black haired kid had scooted out to grab Burger MacMuffins or whatever for him and his buddy in the van. Three blocks away and there all day.

She'd rather have been on the roof with Hauer's gun and the little game-boy of a remote control. More fun to flick switches and watch things go boom. More fun to see Tanner's face when his team was blown to kingdom come, only Hauer didn't care for any of it. He didn't like the set-up, wasn't terribly fond of Tony Hartman and only outright greed and maybe a little fear had put him up in that pigeon roost of a crawlspace in the middle of the night to wait for Hartman's little morality play to unfold.

And all she had to do was walk up to the van, ask for directions and leave a nice little packet of promises for the hereafter on the side panel and walk away.

She'd almost done it too. Gotten out of the car, just at the half hour past, liking the idea of catching them when they'd be most impatient, most aggravated by being distracted and probably be short with her or ignore her and she would tap the van and leave her present and maybe get a Burger MacSandwich of her own. And a milkshake.

She didn't know a damn thing about explosives, but she supposed Hauer knew his shit since he was sitting up on that roof with more tonnage than God, waiting for the moment, waiting for Tony.

She hadn't expected gun fire. It had caught her as offstep as did the sudden revving of the van's engines and the realization that whatever Tony had planned, wasn't what was happening.

Then the van was past her and she heard the explosion, watched the people in the Burger King start pouring outside to stare and gawk.

The packet was in her hands, neatly wrapped in duct tape and the wires carefully taped in place, pretty as a Christmas present. She thought about setting it down, leaving it there in the parking lot. How long after the bridge was Hauer supposed to wait?

She studied the package, walking back toward the Burger King and the crowd and eyed them for a moment. Wondering if this was how suicide bombers felt, what they thought, how they moved...what did they think right before they blew themselves and other people up? Thoughts of God or Allah or Bruce Springsteen maybe.

Three wires: red, green, yellow and she idly thought one of them should be blue. Primary colors.

Sirens now, in the distance and people on the street, smoke and burning and dust and the first flurries of ash drifted by her cheek.

She didn't know anything about bombs. Green for go, yellow for wait, and red for stop?

Close enough, and she wasn't thinking about anything at all -- certainly not God, or how easy it would be to just wait here and take a dozen people with her.

She pulled the yellow wire, only because it was in the middle. Not even a nervous flutter of anticipation. It was almost disappointing and she stepped up to the curb to drop the whole thing in the overflowing trashcan, the weight of it carrying it down below the lighter garbage and a half filled soda cup spilled after it.

She glanced inside and there was no one at the counter, the brown and orange uniformed teenagers all staring up the street as the first of the emergency vehicles came careening up the road. Not bad response time -- five minutes give or take.

But no one was working so she'd have to get her milkshake somewhere else. She fished her keys out of her pocket and headed for her car.

Stupid plan.

The second rumbling was deeper than the first, shaking the ground and setting off car alarms, setting off burglar alarms. She held onto the car door, watching as the building opposite the overpass started to crumble, fall, sinking in on itself like the earth beneath it was opening up to swallow it. The blast that came was all moving air and she couldn't feel the heat from here, didn't pay any attention to the screaming around her: people, sirens, alarms. She kept her eye on the trash can. Waiting.

It was an utterly disappointing vigil and she finally got in her car and closed the door.

She should have pulled the red wire. Taking a breath she leaned back, watching the street, waiting for the first ambulance to start out and back toward downtown.

And followed it.

7:23 p.m., Denver Memorial Hospital

It all blurred white, burning his eyes, fluorescent lighting necessary in a place where every shadow could be hiding a little piece of death or disease. Chasing it all away. It was steady though. No flickering or wavering and he'd been staring at it long enough to be able to tell.

The pressure built up in his chest again and he fought it back, swallowing the cough, the sourness than came up with it. They wanted him to cough, and he'd been listening to Buck do that, wracking coughs that spoke of too much smoke and dust and probably hurt like hell with those ribs of his taped tight.

His own head ached to the point where the bright lights were a kind of relief. At least he knew why they made his eyes burn.

He coughed finally, hating it, spitting out more dirt and phlegm and then wanting to throw up at the burn in his throat it caused. On his side to spit it out into the towel there, staring at the dirty grey-looking smears and surprised there wasn't blood there as well. He waited for the spasms in his chest to ease and dropped back down on his back, staring up again.

A shadow broke up the pattern of white and he only shifted his gaze, seeking it again.

"Chris..."

//Don't talk to me, Nathan. Don't say anything.//

"Josiah's gonna be all right."

There was more and Chris supposed he should be listening. He knew that much all ready. Josiah...he'd be laid up for a bit. Both legs broken, concussion, but amazingly little smoke inhalation because he'd been face down on the ground.

"They're keeping Ezra overnight."

Concussion, second degree burns and bruising from the blast. Dislocated shoulder. Scalp laceration. Shock.

// I don't want to hear any of this, Nathan. Go away.//

"JD's getting Buck ready to go."

Even though the doctors really wanted him to stay overnight. Chris hadn't known Buck was hurt, really. Not until he'd realized all the blood on his arms wasn't his. That Buck wasn't just breathing harshly because of the smoke. That he'd kept Chris from being flattened by the crumbling marble and concrete when it was clear Chris wasn't aware or didn't care if the whole building came down on him.

// Nathan, please be quiet. Just leave me alone.//

Nathan went on, doing his job both as a subordinate and as a friend. Reporting in. Making sure Chris knew what was what. "They want you to rest for awhile longer, make sure you don't pass out again. Check your lungs. Travis is waiting to talk to you...and McCall is at the scene.--" Nathan's voice broke a little and Chris blinked.

"Nathan," he finally said, quietly, still staring at the lights, blinking because they burned his eyes so. "Please shut up."

"Chris..."

"You can't tell me what I want to hear so...just...please. Shut the fuck up," Chris said, softly. He wasn't angry at Nathan. He wasn't even close to being angry about anything just yet.

"They're....they're still looking--"

"Nathan...*please*..." He wasn't even sure that was his voice. It was strangled and sharp, and took too much breath from him. He could feel the pressure build in his chest again, but it wasn't to cough. Maybe screaming would help, but his throat was already raw from it.

Nathan was quiet finally and Chris wished he could say something. That he could care enough to at least...keep going.

"You want the lights off?" Nathan said finally.

"No." Chris kept staring. Even after Nathan touched his shoulder lightly and moved away.

Maybe he'd go blind if he stared long enough. Maybe the lights would burn through his eyes to his brain and take all his sight away.

He swallowed, felt the pressure build, swallowed again, wondering if it were possible to just stop breathing. That he could wish that light to be a different kind of light -- the one they talked about, all those people near death who saw a tunnel of light. There were supposed to be people waiting for you at the end of that tunnel.

He stared, fought the coughing, the pressure. Ignored the hot tracks of tears on his face, burning his eyes, stinging the cuts on his face, then sucked air and coughed and felt the burning still on face and in his chest and in his eyes. Wishing the light to be some other kind...wanting and waiting for it...wanted them to be waiting for him, all of them...Adam, Sarah....

*Vin*.

There was nothing waiting for him here, now.

But the light didn't change. No matter how hard he stared. It never changed.

##  ~Chapter Eight~

Friday, 5:42 p.m., J.F Reilly Building, Denver

 

Despite Chris' worries, Vin was warm enough, almost too much so as sweat trickled between his shoulder blades and along his sides. The rooftop was still exposed to the chill wind, light as it was, but it was open fully to the sun as well, and the asphalt held the heat, leaving his belly warm and his legs. The heavy vest added to it all, leaving him with warm spots and cold spots and he didn't bitch about it much, not even in his own mind. The thin leather gloves kept his hands from getting too chilled and that was the most important thing.

He'd had plenty of practice at being still, and he didn't need to use those skills as much here, where there was no foliage rustling to give away his position and damn few places close by high enough for someone to see over the stone parapet to spot him. He did pace his breathing, used a series of exercises to flex and tense his muscles in small groups to keep from getting stiff or cramped, and kept an eye out.

That most of all since he had a damn near uninterrupted view save of the area directly behind himself or of the area that fell just out of line of sight behind the overpass. He knew Dan Richard's position though, tucked out of sight more or less until something happened because he was more exposed on the warehouse roof and he and his spotter were up there with their backs to a ventilation unit.

Chatter was minimal, although there was more of it when Buck was on point, and funnier too, Vin listening but not really participating much. He snickered though, a couple of times -- especially when Buck got a rise out of Chris. He did it deliberately and Vin smiled at the pair of them. God, to have a friend like Buck Wilmington...

A different kind of warmth filled him when he realized he did have that kind of friend.

He pulled the thoughts back. Chris distracted him enough as it was, without Vin actively encouraging his mind to drift along that path. He was up here to make sure he had opportunity to do it later, on his own time and not the government's.

He wasn't entirely successful at pushing it away though, rolling his shoulders to ease a small spasm there and knowing that it was movement that for some reason drove Chris a little wild, had this morning, pleasure leaving him more breathless than a long run. There were days when Vin was certain Chris was lying about his age and needed to shave a good twenty years off his claim. Or he was making up for lost time. Either way, Vin wasn't likely to bitch about that either -- even as cold showers and coffee became more necessary to get him moving in the mornings.

"Get your brain on the job, Tanner," he reminded himself and hear the check-ins roll in, answering his call when it came.

Movement on the bridge and Vin checked it, using his scope and preferring it most times to the binoculars he carried if only because it averted the need for hand switching. The big navy blue Lincoln hit the curve of the bridge exit with nary a shimmer, gliding down the backside like a big blue whale breaking the surface and he called it in then settled back again.

"Three-three to seven-one. We've got a van approach north side coming in between 7-4's location and the opposite street." It broke through with hardly a stutter of static in Vin's ear and he tensed a little, glancing back at the fire escape access behind him.

Buck caught it and tossed it back to Vin. "Seven-four, you got scope to check it? You locked up tight there?"

"Roof access is jam-barred," Vin said, checking the ram to make sure it was still in place and eyes scanning over the heavy equipment casings and the adjoining rooftop, and wondering if he shouldn't have taken on a spotter anyway. It was almost automatic to say no, any longer, but he was exposed and if he were compromised, his ability to protect the team would be jeopardized. He really needed to keep that in mind. "Fire-escape's open though."

"We can watch it 7-4," Richard McMillan, and Vin grinned at himself. No, not entirely unprotected. McMillan was a good man. If someone headed up and Vin would know, and most likely McMillan's team would be on them like white on rice.

"Much obliged 3-1," Vin said, on a chuckle and put his attention back where it belonged.

More sit and wait and Vin was starting to wonder if anything was coming out of this other than him needing a long shower to get the dust and dirt blowing around the roof out of his hair and ears. He checked in again, shifted a bit, to ease some pressure on his left thigh.

Then swore, nearly silently but his whole body tensed at the high pitched squeal in his ear that nearly deafened him and left him wincing as he yanked the earpiece out and held it away. The whine was still audible, loud enough, it seemed to Vin, to be heard on the street. The squeal cut out but the static was just as bad, Vin trying to get it close enough to hear the broken voices he could hear trying to break through without bursting an eardrum again. He rolled a little to get to the shoulder unit so he could at least turn the damn thing down.

A shadow and the scrape of boots on gravel was all he had of a warning and he turned, rolled, only to catch the edge of a boot in the jaw that rocked him back and rolled him. The force of it made him bite his tongue hard enough to taste blood and he rolled again, only to have an uncompromising weight drop on his back, and feel the press of cold, really cold, steel at his neck, above the vest. The muzzle was rounded, hard and he took a breath, going still but not limp.

"Hands out, flat," a coarse voice grated and Vin did it, placing his hands out near his shoulders, palms down.

Where the fuck had this guy come from? And why hadn't Team three let him know there was someone at his back...

More pressure on his back and then there were other footsteps, slower, casual.

"Pick up your rifle, Mr. Tanner." A different voice and Vin didn't even have time to process if he recognized it or not, even as sharp surprise rode through him at his name, but the order came with a sharp jab to his kidneys that grabbed his attention.

"Pick it up!" the coarser voice snapped and Vin moved his hands to pick up the rifle, wondering if he could use it, wondering if they wanted him to shoot someone...

Time was crawling but it was seconds only, maybe a minute total between the distraction of the earpiece and this ape on his back.

"I brought you a present -- for you and your team," the softer voice said. "Hidden up there under the supports...go ahead. Look."

Vin did, holding the rifle awkwardly because gorilla for brains was pressing too hard on his upper back for Vin to get a good angle, forcing him to use his forearms as a brace -- bad for shooting. But he could see, lifting the scope, keeping his eyes from darting to the headpiece beside him, wondering if anyone could hear.

He stopped thinking -- almost stopped breathing. Staring at it, wondering how he had missed it, and knowing he'd been meant to. Almost the same color as the concrete...only obvious now that he was looking at it. Bundled and wrapped and God...oh, God...it could only be explosives, enough to bring the bridge down...

Drop it all right on top of Ezra and Josiah.

It never occurred to him to call out, to shout, only the need to warn them, get their attention. He forgot the gun at his neck, the ape on his back, the shadow behind him, and started firing. There was no pause to switch the slot over to automatic just the steady pull and release to line shots up, badly angled but digging chunks out of the overpass, shifting and moving his aim to provide a path. He'd have cut a fucking arrow into it with bullets if he could have. They'd look up, they'd duck, they'd get the hell out of dodge.

The men behind him hadn't expected it, the cursing loud and Vin kept firing even when he was jerked, the last two shots going high and wild, but he rolled with it. He swung the butt of his rifle up only to have it shoved down again and the ape dropped on his stomach, driving the air out of him, and shoving his arms back so that the rifle slammed against the parapet again. It locked into the notch he'd been using and he kicked up, twisting.

Gun... in his face and then moving, the soft 'thwifft' of the silencer closing the sound down as the bullet burrowed at close range through the underside of his arm and out the back side, where it hit the asphalt and sent sharp bits of gravel into Vin's neck. Vin's shocked cry was shut off by another knee dropping on his stomach.

"Blow it, blow it!" A snapped command and Vin rolled, managed to get movement and then heard the blast.

"No!" he screamed it, he knew, driving up with his shoulder -- his good one -- and knocking the gunman, the switchman back, a second explosion behind felt like judgment as he was hit solidly in the chest, then again. The force of it drove him back, bullets slamming him even with the vest, the second man staring at him coldly and coolly and using the heavy HK to keep him staggering. His aim never wavered off Vin's chest until the last shot and he dropped his aim, smiled and the last bullet tore through the inside of Vin's thigh .

Sharp, burning, red-tinged pain and his leg gave before his mind actually registered it. The bruising and swelling in his chest started, making it hard to breathe. "You really are more trouble than you're worth, Mr. Tanner."

Vin could only stare up, consciousness threatening to flee him, staring up at the face, dark hair, blue eyes that he knew but couldn't place. The ape was back and he wasn't smiling, rubbing his jaw, a remote in his hand.

The last thing Vin saw was the heavy boot headed toward his face once more.

10:40 p.m., Denver Memorial Hospital

"Chris." Travis' voice was rougher than usual, that remnant of accent lingering because he was tired, or stressed. Chris had never been able to accurately place it. Half the time Travis sounded like he'd just transferred in from Beantown and the rest of the time he may as well have been raised on a bayou. There was a slight speech impediment too, very mild; the product of a broken jaw when Travis had been more prone to action than policy making.

"What's the word?" Chris asked because he had to and because he could keep a distance between himself and Travis, as illusory as it might be, that he couldn't keep between himself and his team. His friends...his family.

They'd be feeling it like that as well: Buck, JD. Nathan was already grieving in his own way, even while hoping that some miracle might yet happen. Another one. Something like the miracle that had put Ezra and Josiah in this damned place but not left them forever buried in the ruins of the block wide destruction of Denver's poorer side.

It wasn't even the building collapsing that Chris kept seeing, kept trying to banish from his sight, his mind, by staring at the lights until all of it whited out. Just the rifle falling, shattering.

He'd had time to get down. Why hadn't he come down?

Because he'd been doing his job, knowing they'd been set up and yet not knowing if there was more to it -- that there might be guns waiting to cut down those that the explosion didn't kill.

"Four people in the car. All dead," Travis said, something Chris thought he'd all ready heard vague speculation on. "Minor injuries --a few civilians caught by shrapnel. The fire is out...not so bad. They already have... Search and Rescue at the site. There may have been other people in the building. We're tracking down the owner, the leasing office. McCall is keeping me updated. He's taken over the site, with McMillan...Forensic specialists, bomb squad..."

Chris could only nod. Standard procedure. He gripped the side of the gurney, pulling himself upward and Travis was there, gripping his arm, hand against his back. "I want to go down there."

"No," Travis said and his grip increased when Chris would have pulled away. "Chris...you have a concussion. You're lucky that wrist is sprained and not broken and you look like shit. There're two teams down there as well as forensics…and three S&amp;R teams. Whatever there is to find, they'll find." Travis shifted so that he was in front of Chris. "And we'll find Tanner too," he said quietly.

It was the dizziness that made Chris cover his eyes for a moment, that and the damned bright lights. "I need to talk to Ezra. His contact..."

"Set you up, or so we think. Chris..."

"Orrin...don't tell me to...to rest...or to...," his jaw worked, his teeth grinding together in a way that would make his dentist wince, "...go home. If that's your idea how to handle this, just do us both a favor and put a bullet in my brain, right now. Or I will," he said, adding it softly and looking up at his boss for the first time.

He wasn't alone in this...not in the loss, not in the barely-able-to-be-registered hole that had suddenly opened in his life, in all their lives. Travis had gone to bat for Vin, for him and Vin more than once, not looking the other way, but right at them and not letting what he saw sway his opinion that they were the best men to do what they did -- no matter the circumstances.

Was he wondering now if that had been a mistake? To leave them partnered? Together? If he wasn't, Chris sure as hell was. It wasn't even a rational response -- if not Vin, then some other man on the roof...only, no. He wasn't sure anyone else would have stayed to watch over them...

Why hadn't he come down?

"That isn't reassuring me as to your mental stability, Chris," Travis said, but it wasn't condemning, only anxious: a slight frown, an aborted attempt to touch Chris.

"Wasn't meant to," Chris said honestly, swallowing against the thickness in his throat that wouldn't leave him. "But I can think and I'm mobile and I want the bastards, Orrin. I want the motherfucker who called Ezra and I want who ever called *him* and I want..."

//I want Vin back. I want him here, beside me...//

And barring that, Chris would rather be dead. Would be if he didn't do something, act on something that would force him to think past the moment, past the sinking realization that Vin was gone...and he had to start now, before the grief caught up with him, before it overwhelmed him and he was useless to anyone.

Most of all he didn't want to go home, or to Vin's apartment...//their apartment...//.

"Let me see if Standish is up to visitors," Travis said and squeezed Chris' shoulder, briefly. "Be here, Chris. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Chris could only nod, and sit and wait and already it was starting. He eased himself off the gurney, feeling muscles pull and the stitches on his face twinge when he scowled at the pain. This was the bad part. He needed to do something and not think.

And God, he should check on Buck, and JD...find Nathan, make sure he'd heard right and that Josiah would recover enough and Ezra...

He'd had time to get down...only it hadn't mattered. Didn't. That Vin would think he was in danger -- no reason at all to think so, up on his perch...

Chris closed his eyes, seeing Vin jump that expanse, cocky as a rooster, thinking he had damn wings like a hawk...looking so little boy proud and smug for scaring Chris, laughing at him, at all of it.

Laughing this morning before they'd left: playful and wicked and excited because they were going back to work; because they had an op. Already hyped on the adrenaline and getting it out of his system with Chris' very willing body a cooperative target, so that Vin would be cool and calm later in the day.

Clipping his ID back on like someone had left him a present. Taking the ribbing for layering his clothes, looking lethal and deadly and sexy as hell in the all black gear; teasing Chris as they placed the wire: enough to make Chris feel heat in his cheeks.

He took a breath: feeling Vin's skin under his hands, warm and smooth as he settled the wire… He clenched his fists and lifted his head, the flush of purpose in his veins, painful as it was. He headed into the hall and down, looking for JD and Buck, knowing they hadn't left -- that Buck wouldn't leave without checking on him. That wire, the satellite link, might help the S&amp;R team find him, if it hadn't been...crushed.

All of a sudden, he knew Travis was right. He couldn't go down there. He wasn't sure he could stand to see that body -- Vin's body -- mangled or crushed, torn apart by the compression of tons of concrete and steel. Seeing Sarah and Adam...maybe he had needed to...to assure himself, convince himself they were dead, and he might need to see Vin too...but not like that...not...

As if not seeing him was somehow going to stave off the nightmares Chris knew were waiting for him.

Two rooms down and he could hear JD fretting still and Buck sounding tired and worn and yet patient. He knew that voice, that tone, and would bet money that Buck had a hand on JD's shoulder, letting him ramble, letting JD deal with the shock and the grief the way he had to: by talking, mind darting in a dozen directions that were rarely fruitful. But it was how JD dealt with things and Buck knew it. And Buck would deal in his own way, quietly, put it off to help his friends before he dealt with it on his own.

Or so Chris thought, realizing he didn't know. Didn't know really, how Buck dealt with grief. Chris had been too wrapped up in his own when he'd lost Sarah and Adam, then tried to drown himself in a bottle.

He hovered in the door. Not this time. He wouldn't make Buck deal with both his own loss and Chris'. Not again.

"JD," he called, glad that his voice didn't waver, didn't falter. It was Buck's eyes he saw come up first, while JD was turning around: Standing, just as Chris had thought, next to Buck, the other man's hand on his shoulder.

Buck looked like shit. There was a helluva bruise on one whole side of his face, a smaller one on the other side that Chris knew had been caused by his fist. He had his shirt on but unbuttoned, blood and dust still evident, the bandages around Buck's chest looking pristine against skin that was dirty and streaked with sweat and blood. His slacks were ripped too, past the knee, another bandage on his leg and given how Buck was holding his right arm, damage there too.

Most of it gained by Buck using his own body to shield Chris when the building fell. He remembered that much, Buck covering him, pinning him, holding him down with all his not so unimpressive strength and maybe even with more than physical strength.

"JD, I need you to check on something..." Chris said, tearing his eyes away from Buck's, unable to bear it, see it: pity, love, compassion, grief. He couldn't deal. "The back up system...the satellite bounce...can you use it...can the searchers use it to ...find Vin's body," he said finally, in a rush, getting it out and biting down hard on what came up with it.

If JD cried he'd lose it. It was a battle, a struggle that Chris watched happen on the too young face -- also dirty and sweaty and blood streaked -- but he watched it, willing JD not to break in front of him.

And he won it, JD did, fighting back words and feelings with a convulsive swallow that left Chris' throat tight. JD paled but his eyes were bright, focused. "I...maybe. If the signal is still working. The van is...it's outside."

Chris nodded, even found the broken end of a smile somewhere for him. "Find Travis, tell him what you are doing, if you need help. He's trying to see Ezra."

JD nodded but he lingered, glancing at Buck, torn between the living and the dead and Chris understood it...almost hated JD for having the choice but Buck squeezed JD's shoulder. "I'll stay with Buck," Chris said, alleviating the need for JD to decide and the younger agent smiled at him gratefully and moved away as Chris moved in.

"Chris...I'm..." The words were there but Chris wasn't ready to hear them.

"I know...go do what you can," Chris said softly, quietly, wishing he had JD's skill so he could do something as well.

The tears were there then and JD ducked his head and rushed out.

Chris blinked and came closer, feeling Buck's eyes on him as he reached out to put both hands on the end of the gurney Buck sat on: out of reach, though.

"What can I do?" Buck's voice was low and rough and Chris didn't dare look up, only shook his head.

"What you're doing...I'm not..." He owed Buck this much, at the very least -- so much more but God, he couldn't take anything more and keep it together. "I'm not ready, Buck. I'll get there...but not..."

"Chris...God, I'm...so sorry..." almost whispered and the roughness in his voice wasn't from smoke or dust. "I'd do...give anything--"

"I know," Chris said and lifted his head, to see the dirt on Buck's face split and washed clean by tears. Too many of them...enough for both of them maybe. "It'll be all right, Bucklin," he said and moved then, feeling the odd calm settle over him, seeing on Buck's face what he couldn't bear on JD's. That was it then...Buck could grieve for them both and Chris could do what he needed to. He was clear on that much. He wouldn't be left with no resolution as he had with his wife and son.

It came then, even as he reached out to catch Buck's arm to pull him into an embrace that was both uncommon for him and felt right. Let Buck be the one to grieve for him, for Vin, and leave the path clear for Chris to do what needed to be done.

The cool, clean burn of anger lanced through him like a drug and he held it, held onto it as fiercely as he held onto his friend. It cut through everything else: pain, fatigue, even the detached and distant worry that he'd come too fast to acceptance.

Vaguely he thought Vin deserved more than that but it wasn't there...and Chris thought idly that more than his lover's heart had been crushed in that tumble of steel and stone.

Which suited him just fine.

8:32 p.m., Outside Denver

He came up out of the darkness briefly, scrabbling for consciousness, and finding it gripping him suddenly, fiercely, painfully: leg and arm and head and then his gut when sharp dull pain punched through all the rest and he fought for air. Then struggled in earnest, kicking and swinging but nothing worked quite right and something dug into the very center of the knot of pain in his leg. He thought he screamed only the roaring in his ears wouldn't let him hear anything else.

He cried out again when he hit something, hard, the jolt of it driving the air from him and his body's need for that air forced him upward again, through the darkness, fighting for breath...

"He's coming round...."

Only he wasn't really, only enough to grab the precious air and drop back again knowing he should be fighting harder. There was something he needed to do, something he needed to know. Half there and half somewhere else and he was rolled as he vomited, feeling a sourness in stomach and throat and the pain seemed less and not enough to actually keep him down...but coming up...getting out of this pit was harder than he thought it should be.

"Sonuvabitch!" Sharp and clear as he struggled again and felt another sharp pain along his jaw. He could feel cloth and flesh under his hands, and then he was wrenched over and his arms caught, his face pressed to his own vomit as his hands were caught and held and the pain from his shoulder mingled with the smell and he was sick again. Heard another curse and the demand from someone to someone else to open a window. The motion alone was making him sick again, a creeping nausea in his stomach that spoke of weakness rather than injury and he rolled, found the pressure on his arm almost too much to stand and let go again.

When his senses won the struggle to come back into play, they'd stopped. Finally...the movement eased but he didn't feel any better about it and worse yet, he couldn't move. Not really. He could still smell the sour dead-cat odor of his own vomit, the acrid stench of blood and cordite and underneath it all oil and gasoline until the doors were opened, two of them, letting in weak light but fresh air. It was darker, dusk had fallen sometime between the roof and here.

The roof...he clung to that thought, that impression, fought for some kind of clue as to where he was and what he was doing and why....God, why did everything hurt so much? The pain of it threatened to take him under again and he fought it back, knowing he was in trouble...but he didn't know from where or from what. One thing at a time -- if he concentrated on one thing at a time...

There was a shift and rock as someone got out ahead of him, the shocks on the van -- and it was a van, cavernous and bare and the grind of ridged metal along his side -- rocking with the loss of weight along the struts enough to make him feel like he might just heave it up again.

Instead he was sliding, fighting to stay with it this time, with something, anything as he was pulled out and his legs dropped awkwardly, sending fresh pain up through his leg, then more as he was hauled up to sitting. He couldn't hold the position himself, the sudden uprightness of it all sending his head spinning. Rough hands caught the shoulder of his vest to keep him from falling.

His vest. Sharp and clear and heavy, chest aching from the impact of too many bullets and too close, the explosion...

It came back fast and clear and Vin couldn't feel anything but rage and a desperate fear. He lunged, once more lashing out with whatever parts of his body he could still command: shoulder and legs and he would have taken satisfaction from the fact that his foot connected solidly with somebody's balls, the scream of pain pure glory to hear. The blow that hit his chest hit the vest first, and only rocked him. He heard the cocking of a gun, and waited for it, not giving up, or failing, not yet. Not until he was kicked again and sent to his knees and in the shadows and half light saw the gorilla's face in front of him holding the control end of a SIG. Vin's own SIG.

"Kill him, Hauer, and I will kill you," another voice, another gun was there, glinting in what light there was.

And Hauer looked like it might be worth it anyway: face grim and sour and bruised.

The stalemate drained the last of the energy Vin had and he slumped, realizing for the first time with clarity that his hands were secured behind him as he started to pitch forward. A hand caught his hair, pulling him back, holding him upright as he fought for breath and consciousness as determinedly as he'd fought his captors.

And lost that fight too.

It took longer to surface for the next round, and it hurt more if that were possible, but he could actually breathe a little easier -- or could right up until the pain hit once more. It was a deep, sharp-bladed burn in his thigh and his arm, his whole right side seeming to throb and jump, like his bones wanted to punch through his skin, erupt sideways and out, to escape the pressure and the pain. Taking in air became more about trying to grab a gasping breath between the throbs and waves than because of the bruising on his chest or the heavy weight of the vest.

The vest was gone and he was cold, although he couldn't be sure it was cold and not shock. He fought the pain back bit by bit, recognizing that it actually took on a pattern he could predict as long as he didn't move and continued to breathe in the same rhythm. Not that he could move much and that was part of the problem, since his body wanted to curl and protect the injured limbs. Limbs that had been stretched tight and secured and it was too dark to actually see what held him but movement was nearly impossible.

He was alive.

Not that he doubted it but he found himself, suddenly and chillingly, wondering why. He fought to calm his breathing once more, convince his heart to keep pounding but not quite so fast: he was feeling lightheaded again and he needed to think.

The explosion. God...had he warned them soon enough...had they gotten out, Ezra and Josiah?

What the fuck was going on?

He could smell dirt, the musty smell of old, closed places and damp: it wasn't just shock, he was cold. The darkness surrounding him was cold and damp. The wood at his back was damp and rough and he leaned back, just that much, biting back a groan when his arm pulled, throbbed, blossomed again until the pain that indicated torn flesh and muscle and the warm trickle of his own blood along the sleeve of his shirt reminded him of bullets and fear.

He had to pant through it and didn't bother cutting back on the sounds of pain fighting for escape from his throat because there wasn't anyone to hear him as near as he could tell. He leaned forward, wanting to pass out again and found himself held up, secured, the movement putting more strain on his arm until he had to sit back again, catching up short on a hard surface.

It was a vertical beam of some sort, a foot wide, the surface rough, splinters catching on his shirt, along his arms where they were stretched behind him, around it and secured. He could raise and lower them but not pull free, and not much give forward or back.

On his knees and he could feel the stickiness and heat of more blood along the inside of his thigh, the cramps in muscles held too long in one position. His calves and ankles were already numb and his thighs would be too if the pulsing pain there didn't keep him that much aware of the awkward position. Without leverage he couldn't actually move, but he tried, taking a deep breath and not sure if his leg would hold him, using his back against the beam and his arms rigidly bent to try and slide upward.

A few inches, no more before his feet couldn't move forward, ankles tangled in something and he dropped back to his knees, his sharp cry of pain not echoing, only muffled in the darkness against dirt and wood and he came close to passing out again.

The pain increased, the aborted movement sending fresh blood to his legs making them tingle and sting, until he couldn't hold himself up, only curled to the extent his bonds would allow, over and down, vomiting again even though there was nothing left.

It passed, eventually, and he sat up, slowly, carefully, resting his head on the beam, not giving in to the temptation to try and find a more comfortable position; there wasn't one.

It hurt almost as much to think, to try and figure out what he was doing here, where here was...and back again to what had happened to the team, to the rest of them, to Chris...

He'd have broken cover when the bomb went off...if not sooner, at Vin's shots. He hadn't looked. Had no time to check...he could have been close, close enough.

He was breathing too fast, getting dizzy and he stopped it. Forcing himself to breathe deeply, overriding the bruising pain in his chest, the fear and the total dislike of being in this dark, cold place without any understanding of why.

He hadn't recognized the ape. Hauer. Not the name or the face. Muscle then, maybe the demolitions engineer. He'd had the remote: wire signaled and pro-looking. No hand-made component there. The other man though...familiar: voice, something about his look. He closed his eyes even though he could see nothing, but was straining his eyes trying to. The man knew his name...he was more trouble than he was worth.

But obviously he had been worth the trouble to be taken like that and brought here, still alive, although given the amount of blood Vin thought he was losing, that might not be an entirely permanent situation.

Think, think...why him? Why take him, because it was brutally evident they, *he*, hadn't wanted him dead. Not then and not now.

There was a thump...and Vin opened his eyes, straining again, only vaguely aware when the darkness seemed to shift a bit, a glow moving and growing brighter until he could see the frame, the open frame of a door. He squinted to see the racks beyond, the edges of the wood and stone of his little dark prison.

Vaguely familiar and then more so, as more light poured into the room, and his heart started pounding again, unable to control his breathing at all as the details of the room became more evident. A cellar old and unused, beyond it a wine cellar, stone and wood and the smell of rotting wood and soil that never dried really. Most of it had been cleared, taken up and bagged for evidence but no one had really cleaned the room. The dirt had long since absorbed the blood and the other fluids, but the stench of it rose as if fresh and new and he couldn't stop himself from struggling, panic rising as he fought his bonds, fought to be free of it all.

And the face snapped into recognition, despite the changes in hair color, the addition of a beard. Overlaid and over washed with near blind fear and even as the illumination grew bright enough to chase away the lingering shadows, Vin found himself fighting, trying to get back, to get away.

"You're going to hurt yourself, Agent Tanner," Anthony Hartman murmured, smiling and unconcerned, the lamp he held almost painfully bright.

Vin stopped, went totally still except for his breathing, remembering more than this room, this nightmare and what had happened here, fuzzy as it was, but with the marks of it still on his body, on his back.

Hartman crouched in front of him, making sure Vin could see him, smiling more broadly at the recognition there. "And we can't have you hurting yourself, Agent Tanner. That, as they say, is my job."

Vin could only stare at him, as mesmerized by that smile and the cold amusement in the blue eyes as would be a bird by a striking snake. He didn't even have to ask why, didn't want to know, just felt the cold, sickening drop in his gut that told him his death was inevitable.

It just wouldn't be immediate.

The fear fell away as well, in that moment, that instant...because there was no place for it to go. No point to it at all, to fear it...he could only wait for it to be over.

He couldn't entirely stop his trembling -- he was too cold, too shocky, but there was something he could do, and he dug for it, hard, and held on, meeting that cold-eyed gaze.

"Fuck you."

The blow that followed was entirely worth it for having pissed Hartman off and because it sent Vin into a darkness the fucking lantern couldn't penetrate.

11:52 p.m., Denver Memorial Hospital

McCall had told him the same thing Travis had, when Chris changed his mind, needing to be somewhere where he could do something, focus on anything. But he couldn't drive: he wasn't that far over the edge of being unreasonable and the vision in his left eye was blurred and red tinged, his head ached like a son of a bitch. Driving would be either potential suicide or premeditated murder.

"It's going to take them hours to get through this, Larabee," McCall said on the phone, voice gruff and patience short, but he was gentle too, as gentle as Lawrence McCall knew how to be. "I'm already pushing our own teams back to the perimeters, checking for witnesses but even that's going to have to wait until morning, if not Monday. Another...more men down here isn't going to help and the fire department isn't letting anyone onto the site. I'll call you, personally, if we find anything, learn anything."

Wisely, McCall didn't suggest he try and get some rest but there wasn't much else Chris could do save wait and check on Josiah, who was still out although both legs were in casts, his big frame looking almost ridiculous with the bulky plaster. Simple fractures really, the left leg likely to only need a cast for a week or so, below the knee and then an air splint. The right would take longer, broken twice and the doctors in their total lack of ability to grip the irony of it, said he'd been lucky the right leg hadn't been crushed beyond saving. He'd be in a wheelchair for awhile and already Nathan was trying to work out how Josiah could manage afterward: what it would take to put in a ramp to the front door so the man could get in and out of his own house.

It gave Nathan something to do, something to focus on.

Buck was resting, sleeping actually, lanky body looking like it would overwhelm the narrow gurney while JD tried desperately to get something that would help them find Vin. Travis had sent JD back to the office, where the signal receivers in the test labs were stronger but it left Buck without a ride for a little while. Chris had covered him with a blanket and dimmed the lights and warned the nurses he'd be around, to let him sleep for awhile.

A promise they could only make as long as no other disasters showed up in their emergency room. It would be enough, because Nathan would take Buck home, if it came to it, but like Chris, Nathan was waiting, just in case there was something to do, some word.

They moved Ezra first and at word of it, he and Nathan had gone up, hovering in the door of the room while the nurses got the battered agent settled. Even Ezra's dignity couldn't survive the far different priorities of the hospital staff -- the open back gown left that way to give them easier access to the burn on his upper shoulder and back. The hot metal searing through cloth to skin and had the fragment stayed in any longer contact with Ezra's skin, he'd be scarred for life. It was a patch as big as Chris' hand and angry looking still despite the salve layered thickly on it. Concussion as well, far more severe than Chris', Ezra waking up disoriented and nauseated. No fractures though, Nathan had whispered to him quietly and that had been a miracle of sorts too.

A miracle that both Josiah and Ezra were alive, and Chris pushed desperately against the thought that it hadn't been a miracle at all, just a friend looking out for them.

Ezra was awake when the nurses finished, focusing on Nathan and Chris with difficulty and it occurred to Chris suddenly that Ezra didn't know, unless Nathan or Travis had said something, neither Ezra nor Josiah knew that one of them was missing.

Gone.

Chris pushed it, ignoring all the stages of grief to get to the acceptance, to the end of the cycle so he could get beyond it and keep going.

"The others?" Ezra's voice, sounding clearer and stronger than Chris thought it should, Nathan having left him in the doorway to personally check on his friend.

Mouseketeer roll call, was what it was as Nathan gave him the short and the sweet, and then faltered on the not so sweet when he hit the end of the list and looked back at Chris.

Fuck you, Nathan, Chris though silently, not angry but annoyed anyway that Nathan left it to him. "We lost...Vin," he said finally, unable to turn away from Ezra's green eyes, the waiting there, seeing anticipation and dread even before he said it. Ezra was too smart and too quick, even muddle-headed as he was probably feeling, to miss the fact that Nathan had given him a status on everyone but Vin.

"Lost..." he fought with it anyway, Chris almost able to see him turnover that choice of words as if it were deliberate, a herring, a misleading phrase.

"He's dead," Chris said, not wanting to witness the mental gymnastics, not wanting to prolong the conversation. "The building was rigged too. Vin didn't have time to get down. They're looking for him...for his body now."

Only he had. Dammit, he had. More than enough time to get down, to get safe, to get away...if only he'd known he was in danger. If only one of them, anyone, had been able to warn him as he had them. It didn't occur to Chris until later how brutal his own words were, possibly even cruel.

Ezra only blinked. Chris half-expected something else: Vin and Ezra were close, friends, odd as it might appear on the surface.

All he saw was the setting of Ezra's mouth, the fact that the unequal pupils suddenly contracted slightly, a wash of color stolen from already pale skin.

"Madden set us up," Ezra said, Chris recognizing the look, the clarity and shortness of Ezra's words. Anger. Hotter and rising faster than Chris' but he welcomed it. God, and Ezra didn't even have to fight to get there.

"More likely someone set us up through him, but I want him," Chris said, forgetting that Ezra was hurt, that he'd had a shock. Nathan staring at both of them with narrowed eyes but not interrupting. Eric Madden was no more than a snitch and a fairly reliable one, but he was a conduit, not a source, and both Chris and Ezra knew it.

"Then you'll have him. How much...how long? If I can get to him before he--"

"It's all over the news already," Nathan put in.

Ezra rolled, winced when his shoulder pulled and Nathan reached out to keep him from getting on his back. "If I call him--"

"Tell me where," Chris said, moving closer to the bed finally. "You're not going anywhere, Ezra. But you tell me where."

"Is it still Friday?"

Chris had to stop at that, coming back to the fact that Ezra was hurt and none too clear but there was no hesitation on the pale face, no acknowledgement that he was having some confusion. What he knew, he knew. What he didn't would come back to him eventually. "It is. About nine."

"He'll be scrounging until eleven or so, the clubs over near the university, probably, or down toward Lincoln Park."

"Run him down for me," Chris said, ignoring Ezra's injuries, his own.

"Six two, black hair, wears it buzzed on the sides, long on top. He's got a stylized sun burst tattoo on the back of his left hand. Probably two hundred pounds," Ezra said, cold clear. "The file in my desk, lower left, there's a Polaroid."

Chris was already dialing, calling the office, directing them to get the picture and roll people for a pick up. He'd do it himself, but he wasn't leaving. Not yet. He wanted Madden in custody where Chris could get to him. "We'll get him. Will he talk?"

Ezra's smile was as devoid of humanity as Chris felt. "If you get him before he scores. If not, he'll talk eventually. When he comes down."

Chris had a mind to do the interrogation himself, but he doubted Travis or McCall would allow it. Not five minutes later the Polaroid was in the hands of two agents on team four, and there was an APB out on Madden for the local boys in blue to follow up on if he should slip by.

And still Chris had to wait. He sat with Ezra for awhile, watching the man as he slipped off into a restless sleep heavily assisted by drugs, not so much to keep Ezra company but because Ezra was angry and stayed that way until his eyes slid closed. It was a bit of a revelation for Chris since he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Ezra angry…then corrected himself, knowing he'd seen it, but hadn't really recognized that silent rage for what it was.

Chris wasn't sure anyone, not even Buck, would recognize his own level of anger. His temper had a tendency toward the loud and vocal, toward explosions of movement. It had taken Buck and three others to hold him back when he'd seen the burned out wreckage of his truck containing the bodies of his wife and son. Or maybe that had been grief too. Whichever. Chris had never been one to suffer in silence when emotion tore at him white-hot and fresh.

Ezra's anger was different, but now, in the half-shadowed light of Ezra's hospital room, Chris recognized it. Ezra was helplessly, quietly angry -- something Chris understood all too well. Nathan caught the edge of it, watching both Chris and Ezra worriedly for long minutes before slipping away to make the rounds: to see Josiah, check on Buck.

Chris waited until the nurses came in to check on Ezra again, then got up, fingering his phone as he reached the hallway and resisting the urge to call and check on team four's progress with Madden, to call McCall, or find Travis.

Team four might delay in calling, but he doubted it. Carl Russell and Chris rarely saw eye to eye on anything, but over the loss of a man in the field: that urgency Russell would understand. And Travis and McCall would call him without doubt, if they'd found anything.

He made his own rounds, without disturbing Nathan and Josiah, returning to the emergency room and found Buck sitting up, discharge papers in hand and Chris had a brief flash of guilt for leaving his friend alone with strangers. Buck didn't seem to care though, but Chris noticed that while the smile he gave the pretty little nurse was sweet and warm, there wasn't anything but gratitude behind it. Buck was in shock. They all were.

"I'll find Nathan and get you home," Chris said.

"What about you?" Buck asked, easing himself off the gurney

Chris ignored him, using the phone in the examining room to call Josiah's room. Nathan would be down in a minute, but Buck wasn't going to be ignored.

"You should come back with me…to the loft."

"No," Chris said. "I'm all right, Buck."

"Bullshit. You can hold yourself together like a pro, but you shouldn't be alone…" Buck said, gently but with the surety of a man who knew Chris too well. Or thought he did.

"I'm fine, Buck."

"And I'm Martina Navratilova."

It wasn't an argument Chris was willing to have. "What do you want Buck? Want to hold my hand, tell me it's going to be all right? Make sure my gun is empty?" he met Buck's eyes dead on, met those searching, anxious, scared blue eyes.

They were the wrong color blue. They should be darker. And the dark hair should be longer. And if either of those things had been true, and Vin and Buck's positions had been reversed, Chris knew he'd be wrapped in Vin's arms, seeing the same emotion in eyes that were darker blue, and be sobbing and spitting his pain out for the loss of his oldest friend. Then moved into the anger that would help him bring Buck's killers down.

But none of it was true and at the moment, the last thing Chris wanted or needed was to be with anyone else, especially Buck, while he wondered if he could manage to scrape together enough pieces of his battered soul to make that trade happen.

Once upon a time he and Sarah had actually talked about it, in the morbid way new parents did, worried about the uncertainties, and knowing the new life in their care was helpless to protect himself. If it ever came to a choice, she'd said, between saving her or saving Adam, he'd damn well better pick Adam, because if he didn't, she'd never forgive him. Chris had nodded, agreeing, knowing it was true. Knowing it was the same for him, even though he'd never forgive himself if he lost her.

He'd never had to make the choice. He still didn't, couldn't make a choice. Vin had done it for him.

Buck was still staring at him, worried, almost twitching in his need to do something. Nathan appeared, hovering in the doorway, aware of the tension snapping through the room and Chris forced himself to relax, only then realizing he was wound tighter than a spring and likely to lash out given enough provocation. "I'll get a ride back with Travis," Chris said. "Take him home, Nathan."

"Chris…" Buck tried again, but the effort was half-hearted, confusion warring with the anxiety on his face.

"I won't climb into a bottle or do anything stupid," Chris said quietly. "Vin's dead. I want the people who did it. When that's done, you can pick up all the pieces you want to. Go home."

He didn't wait for an answer, moving away from Buck, brushing past Nathan, giving half a thought to checking on Ezra and Josiah and then called Travis instead to find out where he was.

A half-hour later he was in Orrin's BMW heading out of the hospital parking lot. Travis didn't even blink when Chris requested that he be dropped off at Vin's apartment. "I'd feel better if you let me take you to my house," Travis said quietly. "A concussion--"

"Nathan will call every couple of hours," Chris said, not sure if he actually believed it, or even if he'd leave his phone turned on.

"Does he know where you'll be?"

"He will after you call him." It wasn't really a joke but Travis smiled slightly and briefly.

"Is there anything I can do…say…"

"Promise me you won't pull me off this…"

"You're too close…"

"Damn right," Chris hissed. "The whole fucking bureau has been pretty good at ignoring Vin and I for months now. All I'm asking is that you continue. I lost a team member. I don't expect to be heading the investigation but don't shut me out of it," Chris said, keeping the bare minimum of civility in his tone.

"That sounds almost like a threat," Travis said.

"It isn't. Not yet," Chris said, easing back in the seat to rest his head on the seat back. "Somebody set us up. I have a right to know who and why."

Travis chewed on his lower lip as he eased his car into the less than pristine streets on the outer edges of Purgatorio. "I'll keep you informed...but that's all I can promise until I talk to *my* bosses. Believe me Chris -- there isn't a man or woman in the bureau that doesn't want answers to this. But you have to promise me something…you have to agree to talk to someone, inside the department or out of it. And you stay away from the scene for 48 hours unless…something breaks."

Unless they find the body sooner than that. Chris heard it, swallowed against it and didn't know whether to pray that they found Vin intact enough to identify or had to rely solely on fingerprints and DNA. He wasn't sure he could bear to see Vin…mangled or torn. It had been difficult enough to see him that hurt while he was still breathing.

"Deal," Chris said if only to not have to argue about it. Not with Travis, not with McCall and especially not with himself. "Just let me off out front," he said as Travis made the turn onto Vin's street. He didn't want Travis to come up, didn't want him to park and maybe catch a glimpse of Vin's jeep. Not that Travis could keep him from driving short of force, but he could and was both ruthless and compassionate enough to use what bargaining chips he did have to get Chris to agree to conditions rather than be left out in the cold on the circulation of information. Chris couldn't even summon anger at that. Travis was trying find the bomber as well as save Chris and his team.

Chris just wasn't sure, when it was all done, if there would be anything left worth saving.

Travis parked and twisted in his seat. "If you need anything…you call me. And I meant what I said. I know you want to be alone, but that's not necessarily the best thing…when Steven was killed--"

"I've been here, Orrin," Chris said, tone gentler than either he or Travis expected. He thought he saw a flush darken the man's skin, but it could have been a play of shadow. "All the more reason I won't let this one go," he added, pushing the door open and pulling his seatbelt free. He got out and then leaned over, even though it made the blood in his head pound harder, adding to the ache. "And that is a threat. Thanks for the ride." He closed the door. A few moments passed and Travis didn't pull away, but neither did he get out again.

He still hadn't pulled away from the curb when Chris entered the apartment building.

The stairs were too much and Chris felt his anger rising as he waited for the ancient elevator to arrive. Once inside it was several minutes before he realized he hadn't pressed the button for the top floor.

His fist slammed into it with unnecessary force. Almost as if startled, the gears rumbled into service, the car rising unevenly. It still stopped at each floor, even though no one else got on, and hesitated before opening on the top floor. Chris was out of it and in Vin's apartment before the ancient doors closed.

He didn't reach for the light, even though it took his eyes a moment to adjust to the change in light. The hallway so bright, the apartment darker but it was never entirely black. The broad high windows at the front were one of the things Vin liked, but even with curtains, there was illumination filtering through -- bleed from the street lights and businesses that never entirely shut down. Even at night Purgatorio existed in the shadows and twilight on the edges of greater Denver.

Had this apartment been anywhere else, it would have commanded a fortune. The rooms were large, the ceiling high, even if the kitchen seemed to be more afterthought than design. Even in the dusky light, Chris could pick out the colors: greens and blues and beiges and rusts, the walls still that kind of industrial off-white with some ridiculous name like eggshell or ivory or antique. It was white with a hint of grey, so innocuous as to fade from perception after a moment or two but still did the work of making the room seem larger and brighter.

He'd have to ask Vin if he wanted to repaint the bedroom at the ranch to something less enclosing than the dark green and grey.

He caught himself, even as the thought finished, and made it no further than the sofa, to sit before legs that wouldn't hold him gave up entirely and fold his hands together to keep them from shaking, the sharp hard edges of his keys caught between his palms.

There were no bright lights here to explain away the burn and dampness that spilled over his fingers. He could almost laugh at the irony of it, to have it finally, have Vin like a prize for some contest he didn't even know he'd entered -- to the lucky winner goes everything your heart could desire, step up and collect.

He had and Vin had been so ready and so scared, and still knowing what he wanted, who he wanted, when wanting anything was as new to him as a sunrise.

Oops, sorry. Just kidding.

The keys didn't actually do much more than bounce of the wall and leave a tiny mark when Chris hurled them. He stalked the room, fingers flexing and sometimes reaching, for books and pictures and little bits of some part of Vin's life arranged on the shelves. Not so many, just a few, and Vin knew the story of each of them. The books, the pictures, the small bits of stone and iron. Nothing in Vin's life got held onto without significance. No books picked up on the bargain shelf and then left to collect dust because they weren't as much interesting as cheap. A quarter pound bit of uncracked geode found its way into Chris' hand, egg rounded and rough.

The weight of it promising a condensed display of minerals that might be incredibly spectacular…but it had not been split or polished, only rested against a flat bit of stone that held a fossil imprint of some long dead reptile. From Arizona, both pieces, from some back road shop that pilfered and sold what archeologists or paleontologist or geologist might horde and study. These two things and a story about a need to get out a bit, wander some of the countryside on foot. A younger Vin, still too cramped and reminded of an army career that had left him bitter who'd found a way to tie past and present and future together in two pieces of rock. One of a dead lizard long since vanished from the plains and hills of earth and sphere of something equally as old but still unseen, unknown…

Carefully, Chris put the geode down, settled its rocking and made sure it wouldn't roll off the shelf, as if it were fragile as a Tiffany egg.

There was so little of Vin here and yet so much. Five years or more…he'd had this apartment and it might be expected that there would be more. Markers of years gone by, like Mrs. Walden downstairs had, with her wedding china fifty years old still displayed like a new bride's, or the years of accumulated lines and photographs. There was little here, all still precious, with meaning, but not enough years worth to keep Chris company, to look over photos or memorabilia. They hadn't even had time to try a vacation together, any more than a week or so in Texas, amid more remnants of Vin's past.

A past he'd signed over to Chris without really blinking, as Chris had signed over his future.

Only the former had any real worth. He'd walked the edges of that Texas property with Vin, following the path Vin had almost twenty years earlier. They hadn't slept out under the stars, they had settled into the deep shadows of that rickety porch and shared things: Memories, words, danced silently against and with each other's bodies with the stillness of the night carrying away no secrets.

He turned away from the shelves, feeling dry-mouthed and sick in both soul and body. There was whiskey in the cabinets and Chris almost reached for it before remembering his head, knowing that if he started now, despite his promise to Buck, he wouldn't stop.

Juice was a poor substitute but would probably do him more good because he would be fit for this, to follow through, if it was the last thing he did.

Which was highly likely. He found the juice and his eyes lingered, not with hunger but with more pain than a stocked refrigerator should cause. Steaks and potatoes and salad and even an extra package of Mrs. Walden's sugar wafers. A bottle of wine, left like an empty promise that they'd be here, tonight, late but hungry and hyped and Vin had felt there was something to celebrate.

It actually helped some to know that Vin had planned to be here with him, that no intimation of doom had haunted his lover through the day. Something about it all, to see the feast Vin had planned, made Chris wonder if he'd given up too fast. If maybe he might come out of this alive. Miracles happened. Luck had followed Vin more than once.

The pain welled up so fast and hard, Chris choked on his juice and spat it out, feeling it sour in his mouth. Hope too, like some cantankerous old bitch who wouldn't give up even though every breath was forced through a tube and every heartbeat was prodded by a mechanical thump on her chest.

He hadn't been able to ignore the TV's in the hospital, hadn't been able to or willing to miss the updates from the site. He'd wanted every tiny bit of information he could glean from Travis or the news or the gossip in the halls from others who had time to glance at the reports. Less than a mile away the lights were bright as day and the crews were crawling over rubble and moving in the big cranes and machinery in the vain hope of being able to lift the top floor of the building off the second floor. Just in case, just in *case* someone had been in the building after hours. News helicopters had show it: the building caved in like some meteor had struck it and driven it down, asphalt and marble and granite rising like dark icebergs amidst the smoke and dust. If he'd survived it, they'd have found him.

If he'd fallen between those cracks and upheavals….the big HVAC unit had been twisted like a piece of paper. Steel and iron and concrete…

He bruised his eyes with the heels of his hands and shoved away from the counter, out of the kitchen. He couldn't stay here. It was too close. Too close to Vin in all ways.

He had clothes here and he regained his equilibrium enough to find them, jerk them savagely from the drawers and shelves where Vin had so carefully placed them only hours before. He left the torn and dirty clothes in the laundry basket, knowing that at some point, someone would have to pack up Vin's apartment. The food…

Later. Much later he'd let…anyone but him…come and give it away, what was left. To Mrs. Walden or the Gonzales' across the hall…

People to tell and Chris couldn't do it, leaving the apartment and locking it. Fleeing it, really. Praying Vin's jeep wouldn't give him trouble and already planning for it if it did. A cab, a bus, he'd fucking walk to the federal building to get his own truck.

The jeep only whined a little but moved, and for once Chris welcomed the sharp crack of wind across his cheeks, not able to fathom how Vin could drive the damn thing without being blinded by his own hair since Chris' much short hair was stinging his eyes.

Once more he was half lured to the site, seeing the lights over the buildings, a helicopter still hovering. There might be a chance…and he'd want to know…what if they found….

Shoving the gas pedal to the floor provided a welcome burst of speed.

He was more careful out of town, knowing the temptation would lessen as the miles peeled away, and not really in the mood to kill anyone else….well, not if there was paperwork involved. And he found himself laughing at that. Not quite hysterically, but laughing because it was so much like something Vin would say. So easy to hear his voice, raspy and wry, in his ear. Sly comments and teases about the way Chris drove, about the turn his thoughts kept taking.

He wanted to know and had never asked, if Vin would be the one to pick up and move on had their positions been reversed. Playing what if was pointless and Chris knew it better than most.

He thought Vin would. Young still, younger than Chris, who never thought to find love once…and twice. Would it be enough, would Chris' example have been enough for Vin to keep going, to search again?

Not that Chris had been looking. In fact, he'd been so purposefully *not* looking, he'd almost missed it entirely.

Given the choice….would he have taken the chance, knowing…

Buck had been right. He shouldn't be alone. He didn't want company, but it was harder than he'd thought to hold himself together with no one around to demand anything else of him either in compassion or sympathy. He slowed the jeep, coming closer to approaching the speed limit and realized he was nearly home.

The ranch was darker. There was no light pollution out here, even the lights attached to the motion detector were more subdued. Here, then, he needed light, and turned them on as he passed through rooms and dropped his keys, his jacket, and the warnings given him by both the doctors and Nathan.

He needed to not be alone, but the only one with him was Vin and Chris didn't want Vin's voice in his ear right now or he'd lose it completely.

Jack Daniels was a far more forgiving friend who'd ask nothing of Chris but his company.

##  ~Chapter Nine~

11:10 p.m., Juarez Estate -- Outside Denver

Consciousness came back marked by the inability to breathe. Vin tried to take in air, gasping for it, feeling an ache in his chest when he struggled for it and then found himself not so much gasping as choking. Water filled his mouth and throat, burned through his sinuses, the coldness of it making him flinch back and try to escape it, which tore at his arm and leg. Then it was gone -- the water shut off, vanishing -- leaving him sputtering and coughing but remarkably able to breathe despite the pain of the process.

He coughed again to clear his throat, felt his stomach roll at the pain that ignited and he vomited up the water he had swallowed.

"Now, now, agent Tanner. After all the trouble I went to get you cleaned up."

The voice was familiar but it took Vin a few moments to place it, a few more minutes while a harsh spray of water hit his face, his chest, burn a hole in his arm and then in his thigh before easing off into a pressure less punishing physically but no less cold.

"I seem to have forgotten to bring you a towel." Hartman cut the water again, tossing the length of garden hose aside and crouching before Vin again. He'd changed clothes, which didn't actually give Vin any kind if indication of how much time had passed. Vin found his gaze locked on the heavy work boots the man wore, registering the down vest his tormentor was wearing. The cellar was cold, Vin's body registering the fact even if his foggy brain hadn't actually caught up with the fact yet.

"Why?" he asked, as much because he was confused as because Hartman's voice was doing more to orient him, than any efforts he made on his own. Cellar…Juarez's estate -- the thought made him sick again but there was a point to it, he was sure.

"You've cost me a great deal of money, Agent--"

"Why here?" Vin asked, spitting water out. He didn't care why Hartman was doing it -- vengeance, leverage. The twisted rationale behind any of this might fascinate Josiah, but right now, Vin had a far more personal interest.

Hartman looked put out at being interrupted. "Poetic justice? Familiar ground. For both of us, yes?" he said and reached out to dig a gloved hand in Vin's hair and pull his head back, pressing him back to the pillar. "The rest of your team…Standish…that was all about business. But you, Mr. Tanner…we have some very unfinished business," he said with a smile that left Vin colder than the water or the chilled air.

Hartman jerked his head forward and down, suddenly, sharply, Vin unable to keep the cry of agony to himself as pressure was put on his wounded arm and across his thigh: already swollen muscles protesting as more blood was forced into them -- and out of them -- by pressure. He struggled more from instinct than anything at the feel of something cold and sharp at the back of his neck.

"Careful, Agent Tanner or this will be over before we've settled our business adequately." Hartman's warm breath ghosted over Vin's skin as the knife continued to slice downward, parting the fibers of Vin's shirts from collar to his lower back.

The fabric split and fell to his sides, Hartman's fingers rubbing lightly over his back, tracing a pattern -- something -- and Vin struggled for it, breath coming in quick, shallow pants as fear took a deeper hold once more. He knew that pattern, the tracing of pale lines on his flesh, the look Chris got in his eyes when his attention was caught by the scarring. His need, early on, to kiss each one as a way to let Vin know that while they mattered -- they didn't matter.

If Hartman kissed his skin he'd throw up again. He might do it anyway. Hartman had him pressed down, straining his bound arms, almost laying on him as he shifted to let the light from the lamp he'd hung illuminate the flesh he'd exposed. Passing out again was a definite possibility as well.

"There's an art to the use of a whip, a lash. The crop was a far weaker tool -- no pattern, no elegance. Chen never really appreciated the subtleties of a ritual scourging. But given the tools I had…I must say, this is very fine work. Even lines -- deep enough to scar without breaking your back."

Vin went still, taking a single slow, deep breath. "You did that…"

"Did you think it was Chen? Did you think that old man dragged you down here on his own? Poetic justice, Agent Tanner. I told you. Had I not been so pressed for time in that damnable mine shaft, I might have handled this then. You are…your team…Very clever. I do regret that my dealings with the rest of your team required the application of brute force rather than finesse…but I'm a little pressed for time."

"What?" Vin asked, needing that breath.

"They are dead, Agent Tanner. Well, most of them." Hartman pulled back, lifting his hands from Vin's skin. "You as well, although by the time they realize you aren't there…well, it won't be a matter of having the facts wrong, so much as the location." He chuckled at that, finding it amusing, pale eyes fixed on Vin's face. "You don't believe me?"

Vin didn't. Couldn't. He edged toward accepting that maybe…Ezra, Josiah…so close to the explosion -- but Chris had been further away, right? And Buck. JD and Nathan in the van.

Hartman left him, leaving the light, leaving the shattered door open. Vin could hear him, struggling vainly with the shackles at his wrists, not sure even if he could get his hands free, he'd be able to stand. His legs alternately burned and went numb, the aches so moshed together he couldn't separate them any longer.

A shadow on his face and Hartman returned with a little portable TV, setting it on the table, dragging an extension cord into the room. "It's been on the news for hours," Hartman said casually and turned the TV on."

…."workers are being cautious due to the possibility there may yet be survivors in the building. The blast has collapsed the roof onto the third floor and partly into the second."

Vin could barely focus on the newswoman's face but the sound was clear enough.

"The fire department has managed to bring the resulting blaze under control and the utilities to this eight block area have been shut off. Neighboring business will be evacuated or not allowed into the area until the Fire and Rescue officials declare it safe -- which could take weeks. The access from I-70 has been closed completely, the city not sure if the bridge, where four people were killed and several more injured -- two of them severely -- will be reopened. Members of the ATF and FBI have been here almost since the beginning--"

Hartman cut the TV off. "It should be a comfort to you that they all went together."

Vin was still staring at the blank TV screen. He recognized the building -- what was left of it. The one he'd been on. Wired to blow and Hartman and his friend had stood there, cool as cucumbers, waiting, ready. Hartman had wanted him to see it…to see his friends be blown to kingdom come.

He blinked. Did they really think he was dead? Did Chris? Was Chris dead? Oh, God….in the twisted logic of grief and shock, Vin almost hoped so -- hoped it had happened before Chris had a second to think he was lost.

No. No. No…he'd know. Chris would know too, wouldn't he? Somebody had to survive. No pissant arms dealer like Hartman could take out the whole team. It wasn't possible.

It was. Hartman thought it was, looking smug and satisfied and predatory still. The bastard was enjoying this in a twisted, psychopathic way that made Vin's insides churn more. Different than Juarez -- although no improvement.

"I did want you to know, so you can mourn them properly in what time you have left," Hartman said.

"Why not just kill me, too?" Vin asked, startling himself at how badly he wanted it right now -- not so much to end the pain or the grief he was barely able to come to grips with -- but just so it would all stop.

"I intend to, Agent Tanner. Consider it a last honoring of my former employer, if you like."

"You going to fuck me too?" Vin snarled out, "He had his chance." He struggled to think of something, anything to provoke Hartman, to make him strike quickly.

"Not my style and you are definitely not my type," Hartman said coolly, crouching again. "But I'm sure I can make arrangements. Maybe Chen was mistaken about you. He was very fond of you, you know. A man of compassion and ruthlessness. I hadn't realized he'd consummated your little encounter. How very odd -- and very weak of him." Hartman said.

His hand came up to trace over Vin's cheek and jaw -- not so much sexual as examining him, angling his head up, as if looking for something.

Vin took his chance, lunging sideways and forward and using the only weapon he had. His teeth closed over the fleshy part of Hartman's hand between thumb and forefinger, Vin clamping down hard even when he tasted blood on the leather. Hartman gave a strangled cry and jerked his hand back, the flesh tearing but not giving until he started hitting Vin with his other fist until Vin let go. He had to tuck his head, tried to tuck his body as the blows continued and then Hartman kicked him over and over until Vin coughed up blood and bile.

It stopped suddenly, Vin only barely aware of it, when he was jerked up again. Hartman was seething, cradling his wounded hand to his chest. He said nothing, only studied Vin for a long moment before letting go and backing away, taking the lamp with him, leaving Vin in the darkness and the cold.

Vin shivered, slid toward unconsciousness again and wondered if it were possible to die from hypothermia before Hartman beat him to death. His ability to think failed him and slipped away, glad to be able to escape the grief, the overwhelming sense of loss before it became fully realized.

"Chris…" Plea or prayer. If Chris were dead, Vin hoped he'd be joining him soon, and if he wasn't…God…he had to know. No God could be so cruel as to take the same thing twice, from one man. "Chris…it's okay. I'm right here…" he murmured, largely into the silence…and let himself slip under the waves that would let him be there with Chris even if only in his mind.

4:14 a.m., Larabee Ranch

Sleep eluded him as he'd know it would, dancing away from his heavy eyes and equally heavy body. A hefty application of Jack Daniel's hadn't done much more than take the edge of the aches in his body and make him more clumsy than usual. At this point, a few more bruises wouldn't matter -- and they were infinitely more preferable than the lances of agony that haunted him -- agony that had nothing to do with the admittedly battered condition of his body.

He'd thought he might slip into something like sleep -- maybe oblivion -- at one point, when his cell rang and amazed even himself at how quickly he answered it.

No news, only Nathan, checking on him. Chris mustered enough coherence and calmness to assure their medic that he was resting, that his vision wasn't worsening, and the headache was easing off.

All of them lies but the very first. He had been resting until Nathan called. Nathan had offered to bring him fresh clothes in the morning -- what few hours were left until dawn broke -- and it confused Chris for a moment, until he realized Nathan, and Travis, still thought him at Vin's apartment. "I've got clothes here," he finally managed.

Nathan was quiet for a moment before clearing his throat. "All right. You need anything, Chris -- if you just want company…to talk or--" Nathan's voice trailed off, intaken breath sounding sharply. "If that place…if it's too much. You could come here," he offered. "Won't take me long to get there"

Well, no it wouldn't at four o'clock in the morning and Chris wondered if Nathan had slept at all and in the same thought knew he hadn't. That most likely, none of them were likely to, save Ezra and Josiah.

"I'm…need this time, Nate," he managed, his own voice sounding rough and hoarse. "Thank you," he said, because there wasn't anything else to say -- unless he gave into the anger for even this much. To tell Nathan or any of them more lies about not wanting or needing their help. He did need it, want it, to find out who had stolen something so fundamental from them as their sense of wholeness.

"All right. You call though, Chris. For anything. Just a voice, if you need it."

Hanging up, Chris stared at the shadows of his den, not drunk enough to stop thinking and registering for the first time that the loss wasn't his alone. And it wasn't even all about the rest of the team missing, losing, or grieving over a teammate, a friend. There was grief there for *them*, for him and Vin, for the destruction of something all of them held a little precious. Nathan, maybe, more than most, loving Rain as he did -- probably wondering what he would be doing if he lost her.

He couldn't even really wrap his mind around it still; to be waiting here for word. For the physical evidence of Vin's death. Grabbing at the phone like there would be some hope there when the call came. Like knowing they'd found him would somehow be better than it was now.

He felt like a ghoul, disgusted by the perverse joy he might get in knowing that he wasn't waiting any longer.

And wondering why he was -- why he wasn't tearing into the forensic and evidence people, wasn't there, pulling rocks and debris away to catch a glimpse of something he was pretty sure he'd never see again, never want again.

What was left in the Jack Daniel's bottle spattered all the way across the ornate, antique mirror over the mantle. Bright shards of reflective glass dripped to the floor and Chris stared at it, stared at the empty blank spot where the glass had been, whiskey wet and glistening on the backing and on the sharp points that remained. Somewhere in his mind he'd known the backing to the mirror was red. Wet now, and in the steady patterns of light and shadows in the room, it looked like a spatter of blood behind the mirror.

Sarah had found that mirror at some flea market or another. Loved the frame and had bought it, refinished it with her own small hands, bought the new mirror and set it. Like a flash from a camera Chris could see the day they'd hung it -- he'd hung it -- having done nothing else to restore it. Seeing himself in it, with Sarah beside him, a six month old Adam in her arms. It had seemed to be a photograph then -- the three of them.

And years later, but not so many months ago, catching a glimpse of he and Vin in that mirror -- kissing, firelight and different shadows. Noting, not for the first time, that Vin was just that inch shorter than he was, fascinated by what the reflected light had done to the heavy waves of Vin's hair before his lover had managed to recapture his attention. Feeling a voyeuristic thrill at the idea of being able to watch himself make love to Vin.

No more than a thought because the idea was so much less than the actual reality of it all. The only mirror he'd needed had been in Vin's eyes.

He was just as glad he couldn't see anything reflected back at him at the moment. If he actually saw himself standing alone again in the reflection of that mirror, it might be more than he could actually bear.

But bear it he would, for now. Grief be damned until he had an opportunity to match it up evenly with justice -- vengeance -- knowing he was in no way close to being able to distinguish between the two.

He would go mad here, though, if he kept thinking. Without even being really clear on what he was going to do, he headed outside.

The horses were none too happy about being turned out into the corral in the dark but they moved, ambling out the open barn door, placated only barely by a handful of the dried apples Vin kept in a bag for them. He spoiled them unrepentantly, despite Chris' dire threats of making Vin pay for the dentistry they were sure to need. Offered a bit of apple, though, even the normally aloof Legius behaved like an ankle-hugging hound dog, Taking his share with delicate approval and heading out. Sire was less graceful, shying a bit and eyeing Chris warily, until he watched Legius munch happily. Sire was quick to take and quicker to head out, shouldering Legius aside and dancing out into the cold moonlight -- ripples of paleness washing over his black coat and breathing out plumes of misty fog from the cold.

It was only work, and even half drunk and sore as he was, Chris could muck out a stall and lift hay and do the routine tasks necessary without thinking too much on the how. Raking out the stalls made him think of dust and debris, but the sharp scent of electrical fires was absent, the acrid burn of melting rubber didn't irritate his eyes. The cut on his eye stung from the sweat dripping into it, his knee throbbed like it was swelling to the size of a basketball but he made it do the work anyway. The hay was stacked to a height easy enough to handle for two men and Chris snarled and cursed at the top bale as he hooked it down alone, cursing again when the bale broke messily. The stalls were alternately too small and then too large and only sheer perversity made him keep at it when he could barely see and every movement of the wide rake sent and ache through his shoulders and back.

He was sweating heavily by the time the sun rose, scoring the horizon with fire. There was a throb in his skull that wouldn't cease, humming along with the burn in his muscles, the low ache in his back and knee. His vision remained blurred but he ignored it, hands and body moving from one task to the next and trying desperately not to think how the tasks he performed could be halved in time when Vin was with him -- or stretched out into an entire lazy morning if Vin were in the mood.

Something about Vin almost demanded that at least some registerable percentage of their lovemaking be done outside. In the whole of his courting and marriage to Sarah, Chris could think of only a half dozen times when their lovemaking had been outside. With Vin it seemed to be wherever, whenever. Their first time had been here in the barn: hot, hard, fast and startling, Chris shifting from wondering to certain so fast it had made his head spin and Vin so easy and undemanding of anything more than the moment. It hadn't even been that much: Vin's mouth and Chris' hand -- wonder and satisfaction.

And even then, he'd held back, afraid to ask if there were more when he knew damn well there had been, if only because Vin had admitted to checking his own feelings for months. Vin expected nothing at all, tempering their encounters with humor and patience until it became more normal for him to stay the night, than to head home.

Until he did and Chris realized he missed having Vin there, by his side, be it in bed or the barn or on the big leather sofa in the den. He fought it for weeks: the urge to call, or ask Vin to stay.

He wasn't even sure when or how it changed. When exactly was the first time Vin had risen to go at the end of the weekend and Chris had held him back with a touch or a kiss. When they had stopped taking two cars to the office.

Long before he'd ever talked to Buck or stopped worrying about what the rest of the team knew or suspected. It had broken open on the Juarez case. Nearly broken them, when Chris first became viscerally, irrevocably aware that that what he was building with Vin was far more important to him than the job, than even the team. When he finally put the job back into the place where it was how he made his living, but living was all about his life with Vin.

What part of him had ever thought there was some safety in being older than Vin? That at the end of it all, he might go first? Either by age or on the job? It was the same lull he'd fallen to with Sarah and Adam -- to think that by virtue of the work he did, if one of them were to go too soon, it would be him.

Because he'd come to believe it couldn't happen twice. Because, somewhere in all of this, he'd become an idealist, had come to believe that Vin was the charm in his life to prove that it wouldn't always be grey and bleak as an overcast day. That by being allowed to love twice, as deeply as few men got once, maybe he was blessed rather than cursed. Or if not blessed, then at least not being singled out for some great ironic test that would make the trials of Job seem like a day at the fair.

He didn't have Job's faith, or Josiah's for that matter. And now, he didn't have Vin's faith either and that was possibly the deepest cut of all.

Thirst drove him to the small tack room with its sink. No more than a stall along a concrete pour, Chris thinking it would be the office for the ranch, someday, where he kept the feed catalogs and the veterinary manuals and the liniments and the licenses to run horses. With just the two, he didn't even need the licenses -- they might as well be pets -- but he'd renewed them every year, filed them in the hope that someday the eight stalls in the barn might actually all be occupied.

He'd let them go to rot after Sarah and Adam's deaths. Ignored the barn and could have cared less if it fell down. The fences too and the fields -- he'd have let the house fall to ruin as well if not for Buck. Even after he'd finally been forced -- literally, by Buck -- to go back to work, he'd neglected the house and land. It was the place he slept and drank and occasionally the place he let himself remember, which generally led to more drinking.

He'd taken what bereavement leave the Denver Police Department's Special Investigations team could spare him and drank most of it away, barely noticing that his checks were being deposited or that Buck was spending more time with him than at his own place. When he'd been forced to go back to work he'd almost balked, preferring to drink away his days and nights -- existing in a haze where anger and grief couldn't touch him. Except when they did, which happened most often when Buck was trying to bring him back to himself.

They'd fought. Or Chris had, violently and abusively, wanting nothing more than for Buck to leave him the hell alone. Even the vague thoughts of vengeance and justice hadn't been of any worth to him because they had nothing -- nothing -- to go on as to why Chris' truck had been rigged to explode. Nothing to trace in the blast, no motive, no suspects outside of Chris' lengthy arrest record to figure out why someone had wanted him dead so badly.

Until the day Buck had come and hauled his sorry, drunken, ass first into a shower and then down to the department. Alone and in misery, Chris would have drunk himself to death. Shoved roughly into his desk chair, he'd gradually sobered enough to realize where he was, to realize other people were there, his friends and colleagues from the department -- most of whom had been at the funeral, which he could barely remember.

Three months. Three months of barely recalled days and nights. Of drinking. Of eating, of barfing it back up and Buck being there to clean up after him.

It became pretty obvious that short of putting a bullet in his head, he wasn't going to die. Buck wasn't going to let him kill himself. He'd locked Chris' guns up early on.

But Buck couldn't make him live either. He'd tried. Once in the office, Chris started to return on his own. Their case load picked up and if his superiors thought he was still drinking too much off the job, it wasn't showing up in his work, the way his and Buck's arrest record had gone up. They'd started taking on more difficult cases, more dangerous ones, undercover things and intradepartmental and agency take-downs. Chris grabbing at each one like it was the next lifeline he had and Buck went with him. Following him to hell in his own way. More than half the scars they both bore now were from that eighteen month period, because Chris wasn't afraid to die, and he was blind to the fact that he might very well take Buck with him.

Came the day that he almost let Buck take his place. Two more perps than they'd been expecting, bad timing and bad judgment, although nothing in the inquiry showed it. Chris knew it though. Knew it had been his devil-may care and damn the consequences attitude that had put Buck Wilmington in the hospital for three months -- that had nearly disabled Buck out for life.

Nine long months without him on the job although Chris took the responsibility, took the chance and stayed in touch. He still drank too much, still had long weekends and a couple of weeks he couldn't remember, went through some months where he traded hookers for booze, or just women willing enough to bed him and not try and hold him. Or maybe they did but he wasn't interested. He was still on the same path but he was doing his best not to take anyone else with him.

It made a difference. His conviction record climbed again, the injury list started to go down to more acceptable levels. Then Orrin Travis had called him. It wasn't until months later that Chris realized what an enormous risk the man had taken on him. He'd just come off a two-month long undercover op, one involving a high number of banned weapons suddenly showing-up in local robberies and nailed the son of a bitch and his buddies and found Orrin Travis waiting at the end of the job with another job in mind.

Another three months at Quantico, more training, more overviews of what the ATF was trying to do with their regional Special Operations Groups. Six to eight teams per group, three groups: East, Central and West and Orrin Travis wanted him and his co-leaders at the central group covering everything from the Rockies to the Appalachians, border to border -- Canada to Mexico and the Gulf.

It had seemed like an impossible thing to accomplish. The level of interagency cooperation would be high as the ATF tracked guns to drugs and the DEA, or picked up from the FBI for arsonists and munitions. Chris could see the logic to it, could see how much more headway smaller teams covering multiple areas, overlapping cases, and odd connections would work. The computer system for the SOG would be new, with an eye to giving all the intelligence agencies the kind of connected access to information they'd always needed and never been able to accomplish because inter-bureau competition and politics ran too hot.

Then had come Waco and Ruby Ridge and Orrin Travis had made his move before the ATF could be gutted entirely. He had his team leaders but they had needed their teams.

He'd called Buck first -- had always intended to, vaguely surprised that Travis hadn't called Buck first himself. Wilmington was far more stable than Chris, less prone to temper or taking outrageous risks. He'd only talked to Orrin once about it and the older man had looked at him like he was an idiot.

"Half the Denver PD would take on a warehouse full of lunatics with semi-automatics if you said it could be done -- and you'd find a way to do it. Your SEAL team had the highest efficiency rating in the service. You want Wilmington? Get him. He keeps you sane. Just don't get anyone killed, please. Looks bad on *my* record."

He'd come so close in the past to breaking that last commandment. Close enough to scare him, close enough to make him be more careful, close enough to discover that somewhere along the way, he'd started caring enough to count, not the risk just to the men he hired, but to himself as well.

Buck, then Josiah, luring the big man out of semi-retirement. Nathan and JD, all of them coming not so much through applications, but through referrals and contacts he had both in law enforcement and through other government agencies. The gain of Ezra had been the FBI's loss, but Chris had been wary -- not so much believing Ezra had been on the take, as wondering why he had remained when his own colleagues didn't trust him. That kind of grit and stubbornness was what Chris was looking for.

He hadn't really been looking for a sniper, precisely. Nice to have when you needed them and granted, the SOG's seemed to need them more often than not. He had needed a weapons specialist -- someone who knew about the guns hitting the streets. He'd needed an investigator to complement Ezra's work in the field, who could do the leg work with Buck among the lower end of the food chain than the high powered movers and shakers that Ezra dealt with.

There was no denying that it was Vin's skill with a rifle that had caught Chris attention, that and the easy, calm way the Texan did his job, took the snarls and bites of his superiors. A bit of prejudice on Chris' part, maybe, to have never scoped out the US Marshals' files. He thought most of them were little more than guards -- skilled and dedicated, but guards. Men and women he saw every day in courthouses and on prisoner movements across state lines. They weren't, by and large, investigators unless they were tracking escaped prisoners -- and that was something they did pretty well. Somewhere in the back of his mind he'd known that the Marshals had a Tactical Group, but it was small, relatively new, still trying to prove itself to the people who drew up the budgets.

Drugs and guns and four states, two escaped cons, and a rail yard in Oklahoma had changed his mind. The DEA and the ATF were after the same guys. The Marshals were there to provide support and to take the convicts -- if apprehended -- in hand, while the other agencies dealt with their compatriots.

A lot of people had contributed to the success of the take-down but in Chris' mind, Vin Tanner had pretty much changed it from being a partially successful bust, to one that might well go down as a legend in inter-agency cooperation.

For all that he'd been impressed, Vin's personnel file had given him pause. His training and qualifications were impressive -- his skill as a sniper undeniable, but there was little in his file that indicated to Chris that he could be the investigator Chris needed. Army Ranger to US Marshal with a two year gap in-between that simply said "Self-employed". It hadn't been sufficient on the surface, but something about Vin made Chris think he was the right choice, he just had to justify it to Travis, if not to himself.

A little more digging and Chris found what he was looking for. Vin had been a bounty hunter -- and a damn good one when he finally dug out the US Marshals' records on recovered felons. Not just bail-jumpers either: Vin had gone after some heavy hitters, some very desperate men who really would rather have died than be taken back and had little care who they took with them be it law officers or civilians. Three times the US Marshals had contracted Vin to help them track down men who escaped custody and capture but who rarely made the headlines.

They'd made the offer, he'd accepted it and then for some reason that Chris never understood, they'd focused entirely on Vin's skill with a rifle and ignored the rest of his abilities. The Tactical Group had been a bad fit from the start. Not because Vin wasn't good, but because he wouldn't follow orders blindly. The same skills and intelligence that had made him so good as a tracker, as a bounty hunter, were wasted in what was, essentially, a take-down unit.

The transfer had been done so quickly, Chris wasn't sure the Marshals ever grasped fully what they'd lost.

And he certainly hadn't expected what he'd found. If Buck kept him sane, then Vin turned out to be the man who kept him calm. He was as laid back as anyone Chris had ever met. Unassuming, quiet, would more often turn the other cheek than fight, but when he did fight, it was fast and dirty and Vin's goal was always just to end it and walk away. He could slip in and out of the seedier parts of any town without anyone remembering, really, who he was or when he'd been there. His sense of humor meshed well with Buck's, kept that distant attitude of Ezra's in check, and alternately respected and aggravated Nathan enough to keep the man off his high-horse enough to recognize he wasn't perfect and he wasn't a failure either when his high standards weren't met.

Not that Vin never caused trouble or failed to bring it on himself. He had a temper and a low tolerance for stupidity. But where Chris was more likely to peel a layer of skin off someone for behaving stupidly -- including Vin -- Vin always seemed to be more of the kind who once you'd fucked up, the second chance was a long time coming. He'd forgive, but he rarely forgot.

And when he fucked up, the confidence was slow to return -- tolerating mistakes less in himself than he did in others.

Except with Chris. Chris wasn't even sure any longer when he'd noticed it, even before they'd become lovers. Chris fucked up and Vin let him know it, but then he'd be right back there, beside him, waiting for him to pick himself up and get moving again. That extended, eventually, to the rest of the team. Not much further than that, and Chris had realized that for once in his life, Vin Tanner had people he trusted unconditionally. It had been pretty sobering to realize that in the sixteen years since the death of his grandfather, Vin had been without that. What Chris had taken for granted: his family, Buck, a succession of friends, Sarah -- Vin had never know, except on some gut level, that it was out there. His mother and grandfather had been the only ones he knew it from, from family.

A family Chris was dead-center in the middle of even before he realized it for himself.

He was supposed to be safe, dammit.

There was no denying the danger of being in a sniper position, because Vin flew solo a lot, while nearly every other bust had them paired off to cover each other. But he was also more often than not in a position that wasn't easily breached -- pretty difficult to sneak up on a guy perched on a water tower or a roof.

In the SEAL Teams, their high man was often called "God" -- all seeing, all knowing, carrying firepower enough to make hostiles think the fires of damnation were falling down on them.

Vin rarely had access to that kind of power, just his deadly accurate eye and a few ounces of equally deadly, high-powered, steel. Buck gave him shit, calling him their "little bird" or any number of equally diminutive and annoying names, just to get Vin to cuss him out. But Chris suspected it was more because Buck didn't want Vin to ever think they forgot about him.

But they had. He couldn't escape it -- couldn't find any way around it. Vin was dead as much because some bastard had rigged the building to blow as he was because his teammates, his superior, his *lover*, hadn't been there to look out for him as he'd been looking out for them. He knew the army sniper training paired men for such duty. He knew that when they could, in situations where it was feasible, the ATF used pairings too -- spotters -- as Vin had with Hollinger.

But more often than not, they were on their own.

Had Vin been scared? Had he even realized what was happening or had the blast rendered him, hopefully, mercifully unconscious? Chris found himself gasping for breath at the thought of it, the horror of it -- the idea that Vin might have been conscious while he was being crushed, might have been bleeding to death -- could be still -- he shunted the thought away, with an audible protest.

The tack room was too small, the barn too dark and he found himself all but running into the morning light, needing to see sky above him. He'd never been claustrophobic. Even last fall, nearly buried alive in the truck with Vin, Chris had only half-understood Vin's fear, his panic. Had Vin suffered that too? A close small space, injured, and very much alone.

He'd let them drag him away. Buck and the paramedics and the rescue teams. Understanding even while he fought to get back into the building that digging Vin out with his bare hands wasn't going to work. Wasn't going to help. Wasn't going to change anything.

Nothing was going to bring him back and Chris had given up believing in miracles.

He needed to do something or he'd lose it entirely. The morning was knife-bright cold, cutting into his lungs, cooling the sweat on his skin from his labors in the warm barn. He should check in, get to the office or the site. Something that would keep him moving, keep him thinking of anything but the imagined horrors of Van's last minutes of life. He laughed bitterly, startling Sire. At least he'd known without question that Sarah and Adam had felt nothing. There hadn't been enough of the truck left to sell for scrap the blast had been so intense. The ashes buried beneath the headstones marking their lives and deaths were more likely more sawdust from the coffins than anything left of their bodies.

He wondered if Vin would need a coffin. Would he want to be buried here, near Chris and his friends? Or in Texas? They hadn't gotten that far in their talks.

Too cold for the horses and Chris caught the edge of Legius' mane to bury his face against the warm hide before walking him back toward the barn.

What Vin had, his land, it was his now. Everything. They'd tempted fate in giving that much to each other. Legius went into his stall with a soft whicker, heading for fresh straw and oats and water.

Sire too, he realized, staring at the black. Big goofy, bad-tempered Sire. Chris couldn't look at the animal without seeing Vin astride him, brushing him, talking nonsense to him and Sire following him around like a dog, when he wasn't trying to bite him, or Chris or Legius.

"Come on, boy," Chris chucked at him, and Sire stood, lowering his head until Chris was a few feet away. Then he danced off. It was a game, Chris knew it -- a game Sire played with Vin.

Chris had no time for games, and went back for the soft bridle. Sire waited for him again, until he was within arms reach, then whirled and ran, skirting the edge of the corral to stop on the other side. Biting back his impatience, Chris tried again, only to have Sire all but knock him over as he charged past him.

Some other time, Chris might have been more tolerant of the animal's desire to play -- or even laughed as Vin chased the horse around the corral. Vin would have resorted to treats and kept his movement slow and steady so Sire would know play time was over. Vin would have most likely grabbed for the animal's mane and hauled himself onto the black's back.

Never again, and Chris swung the bridle, getting closer and smacked the horse with the end of it. Sire squealed and lowered his ears and sidestepped away, watching Chris warily.

If he couldn't lead the damn animal in, he'd herd him. But of all the things Sire was, stupid wasn't one of them and he avoided Chris' efforts -- and Chris within the small confines of the corral. Cold and aggravated, Chris was ready to leave him to it, let the damn beast stay out in the cold. He went to pull the barn door closed only to get shouldered aside, Sire, stamping a bit.

"Fucking horse. Get in or stay out!" Chris snarled at him, as if Sire would understand the concept of a choice. Chris opened the barn door and Sire ran to the opposite side of the corral. Closing the barn door brought him back, dancing impatiently, getting close enough to once more nearly knock Chris on his ass. Chris whirled on the animal, defensively and angrily letting the bridle fly and catching Sire across the nose, then again across the neck when he whacked Chris in the shoulder with his head. He squealed again and reared, forcing Chris back, and he hit the barn door hard. Hard enough to reawaken aches and pains, hard enough to piss him off.

Sire was pissed as well, threat apparent in every line of the big, black body. Chris moved and he rushed him, a very real danger in those flying hooves. Chris yelled at him, waved his hands and the bridle, which only set Sire off again.

Then Sire bit him. Chris yelled, shoved the animal way, furious, his forearm throbbing. His shirt was torn but he couldn't feel a break and it didn't matter anymore because Sire was just running, around and around, pausing now and then to scream at Chris and scold him. The same wildness he'd seen at the auction and no Vin here to calm him. No Vin here to ride him, see to him, to give a shit one way or another if the horse lived or died.

If Chris lived or died.

He didn't even remember going for the gun, for the shotgun they kept in the barn to chase off feral dogs or coyotes or whatever other wildlife appeared that was a threat to them or the animals. Rabies was always a problem and they'd started keeping the gun in the tack room.

He could still hear Sire screaming, or maybe it was himself, Legius agitated as well and kicking at his stall. Chris had Sire in his sights, tracking the animal against the far fence, closing the distance, aiming for the blaze of white at his forehead and Sire was weaving back and forth, kicking at the fence. He'd kick free with a little more effort or jump it and then be out there, God knew where.

The blood was pounding in his ears, his aim not as steady as it should have been and the first shot shattered the top rail. Sire ran, working up enough steam to jump it, or to try, and he'd probably end up breaking a leg and have to be put down.

"Chris! Chris!" his second shot was even wilder, higher, Chris barely recognizing Nathan's hands, Buck's face -- Nathan doing his damnedest to wrest the gun from Chris' hand and Buck doing his best to get a grip on Chris. He managed it, fingers digging into Chris' upper arm and Nathan jerked the shotgun out of his hands.

"Have you lost your mind?" Nathan demanded.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing!" Buck was in his face then and Nathan was dumping the shells. "You've been drinking…" snarled out with anger and disappointment.

Chris shoved Buck off, hard, enough to send the man staggering, and felt another hand on his arm. He whirled and swung that way too, only to be blocked.

He'd never known Nathan had such a lethal left hook. He was on his ass once more, Buck looking both angry and shocked, Nathan looking -- Chris didn't know what the expression on Nathan's face was. He'd never seen it.

Behind them Sire bugled once more and headed into the barn.

"Close the door!" Chris snarled, getting up to do it himself. Nathan beat him there, looking in and Sire was in his stall, still dancing nervously and eyeing Chris, but Buck started talking to him, soft and gentle and snagged some apple, coaxing and cajoling until the animal calmed enough to let Buck set the latch. He wouldn't take the apple bits from Buck though and Chris was perversely glad of it, turning away when Buck laid them along the wide ledge of the stall door.

His jaw ached and his arm, and he kept moving toward the house, even when Buck and Nathan called to him. He needed a drink and a painkiller, in that order.

Some tiny part of him was glad they were here, recognizing that killing Vin's horse wasn't going to fix anything, not even his bad mood, his temper. He might be sorry about later; that Nathan had seen it.

It struck him then, hard, enough to make him grip the railing on the back porch steps. To turn and face them. What were they doing here? And his mind could only come up with one reason -- only one explanation as to why Buck and Nathan were here and no one had called him on the cell.

They'd found Vin.

The whole long night of arguing and tormenting himself hadn't been near enough practice for the way his guts twisted up inside him, or his throat closed so that breathing was something he remembered doing rather than did and speaking wasn't on the agenda anywhere in the near future. Buck here because he was Chris' oldest, closest, friend and Nathan here to tell him…tell him maybe, please, God, that Vin hadn't suffered.

He sat down on the steps hard, suddenly enough for Nathan's expression to change from whatever it had been to one of concern. Buck was moving too, but limping still and Nathan reached him first.

"Put your head down, Chris," Nathan urged with his voice and the gentle press of his hand along the back of Chris' head. Chris went with it because he did feel dizzy and light-headed. Passing out might not be such a bad thing though, he thought, even as he actually took a deeper breath. "You eaten anything?"

It was such an odd question, but Chris shook his head, unable to remember when he had last eaten anything. Lunch maybe, yesterday…snagged a handful of Doritos from JD when they'd been heading to the op. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes and lifted his head when Buck settled beside him on the steps, feeling warm and solid. He'd changed clothes, still looked bruised and battered and like he needed to be in the hospital. Nathan was crouched low in front of him, tired-looking too, but more worried than anything.

"They found him," Chris said, staring at the sunrise that was well into full-blossomed morning, but chill. Buck and Nathan were both wearing jackets, coats, and Chris felt the cold. Welcomed it.

"When?" Buck asking and Chris stared at him because Buck sounded surprised and Nathan looked confused. "We just talked to Travis…not forty minutes ago…"

"Didn't they find him?" Chris asked, confused as well. "What are you doing here?"

Nathan rocked back on his heels, studying Chris intently. "We went to check on you -- at Vin's," he said. "Travis said he left you there. Jeep was gone…you weren't answering your phone."

Chris fumbled at his belt clip but the phone wasn't there. God, had they tried to call him? They had…Nathan…but had Travis, McCall? What had he missed between his drunkenness and his rage. Panicked, he was on his feet and headed into the house. Nathan had called him in the night. He remembered that.

"Did they call?" he demanded, making for the house and the light-headedness was back and a sick rolling in his stomach.

"We haven't heard anything." Buck's big hand caught his arm and Nathan was pressed close to his side, like they were afraid he was going to fall.

"You need to lay down, Chris," Nathan urged.

"Need to call Travis." Find out what he knew if anything.

"He hasn't heard anything yet. Not about…we just talked to him, pard," Buck said, tone soothing, arm steady when Chris was anything but. He shrugged them off anyway, angry again. Wanting word, something. They'd been at it all night…they should know something. Should have found something by now. He needed to know. He needed to hear Nathan say the words -- that Vin hadn't suffered.

He should just ask, turning to face Nathan. Nathan caught his arms, steadying him and Chris could only stare at the wet tracks along the dark skin before his vision went out of focus.

You do that, Nathan. You cry.

It occurred to him as the last of the darkness edged into his vision that Nathan wasn't shedding tears for Vin.

Saturday, 6:10 am - Denver Memorial

"Michelle, you're in early…not scheduled."

The surprise was genuine and Michelle only smiled, tucking her hair behind her ear. "Thought I'd check in…heard the news. That mess over--" she waved her hand.

Allison Haggart was genuine. It wasn't a term Michelle used easily or often. Red hair streaked with grey was disarrayed. She'd been here awhile, all night, in fact.

Don't leave gaps…she'd been seen. Her badge and coat making the staff barely glance at her, the milling cops and reporters noticed her even less.

"Came by last night but didn't find anyone…"

"Mmm…no," Allison said, the director of Rehabilitation services distracted and already tired. "Disaster call came in about two, but there wasn't anyone…"

"You want me to get you some coffee or something?"

Allison looked at her and then smiled, relaxing a little. "Honestly, I'm all right. Look, I know you aren't on but we're booked solid -- you know what Saturday's are like. Julian and Tam are due in at seven but first appointments start at seven-thirty. Aren't you working Mercy today?"

"Single, later today," Michelle said. "I can lend a hand…contract, Allison. I could use the hours," she added and Allison Haggart nodded.

"It would be a help. Two from last night." She passed charts over. "I'll have to clear it. We've got cops and Federal agents everywhere."

"Feds? I thought it was a gas main--" Michelle, professed, studying the charts.

"God knows what it was," Allison said, getting to her feet and smoothing her hair. "Burn and dislocation or Traction?"

"Why don't I take the burn? No orders for whirlpool?'

There wasn't and Michelle let Allison make her phone call, to clear her for the secured floor.

Picture perfect he was, awake, eyeing her suspiciously. The bruising on his face had darkened overnight and he moved stiffly, avoiding the IV lines. Michelle met those green eyes boldly, grinning at him. "Physical Therapy, Mr. Standish. Your own private torturer," she said blithely, smiling more when his eye narrowed. "Need to do some rotations on that shoulder."

"I can do them myself, Ms…"

"Michelle," she said, unperturbed, adjusting the bed so he was sitting up.

"Early for this, don't you think?"

"I think Saturdays are busy for us. Chart says you can get out of here if you behave." She was brisk but careful, checking for swelling and additional bruising at his shoulder. "Swing your legs out for me."

He barely seemed to notice her, once he accepted the fact that he was going to get physical therapy regardless.

The joint was tight and she didn't miss the pinched look on his face as she carefully elevated his arm. "Lets try a hot pack for a few minutes, ease that stiffness a bit…" she said, diving into her cart of the heavy packs and wrapping them in a towel. She eased him over onto his stomach, wrapping the hot pack around his shoulder across the ball of his shoulder. There was some relief there almost immediately, but her eyes traveled to the heavily bandaged burn.

"How about I work on your back a bit," she offered, already pushing his gown open and neatly tucking the sheets just at the crest of his ass. "Looks like you have some bruising there."

Ezra Standish hissed under her hands but then relaxed somewhat, Michelle working through knots and adhesions, tempted to….

Tony was going to be incredibly irritated that Standish had survived. She could have told him last night -- she'd gotten that much from the trauma team nurses, but she'd left him with little news other than they weren't letting anyone in and had a lock down on the press. He'd been annoyed, angry even, but she'd been on the phone and out of reach of anything but his abusive mouth.

Didn't bode well for Tanner, but playing Tony's frustrations was a favorite game. She was looking forward to actually seeing him -- he was going to be twice as angry because she'd dropped the bomb and not confirmed anything. Maybe he'd let her play with his toys after he beat the shit out of her.

Her patient groaned in something akin to relief but deeper as she worked the tight muscles. A little lower and she might be able to relieve something else as well, but when her hand moved a little lower on his ass, she felt him tense. She worked the topside of his gluts as if that had been her intention all along and then moved back up his spine, counting off the vertebrae and the damage likely in each section should something sharp slip between the bones. Parasthesia, paralysis…knees to feet, hips to knees…bowels, bladder, impotence…her breathy little song was wordless but Standish seemed soothed by it.

Easing off, she patted his shoulder. "I'm going to step down the hall and chart this, Mr. Standish. You let that hot pack do its work," she said and got a mumbled agreement. With a bounce in her step she hit the nurse's station to write up her treatment, exchanging the latest gossip with the floor nurses.

Standish was half-asleep when she returned, the packs cooling slightly and she gave it a few minutes more before removing them. Rousing her dozing patient, she went once more to work out the stiffness in the joint, light rotations -- uncomfortable but not painful. Patients had a tendency to complain about that. Standish suffered through it all more or less stoically, wincing a few times and a small gasp escaped him when she went for the backward flex. Drop of whiskey for a drunk, but Michelle eased off. "All done, Mr. Standish," she said softly, helping him lay back down. "You okay? I can have the nurse check on your meds…something for pain?"

"No, thank you, Michelle. I'll be fine," he said, that soft southern burr rising up.

"You got family coming up?" She asked, making the resettling of the hot packs and her other supplies more complicated and precise than was necessary. "They should be letting you out of here soon…"

"Not soon enough," he said with some acidity and she dropped her head. "I'm sorry, Michelle. I'm a little out of sorts."

Sucker. "It's not a problem. I know it's difficult being in the hospital under the best of times."

A small bark of laughter escaped him. "Is there any good time to be in the hospital?"

"Well, if you're havin' a baby or maybe getting something fixed that's been broken a long time…" Michelle countered.

Standish gave her an odd look and his expression softened. "I suppose that's true…there are reasons for people to require this establishment and it's very well-trained personnel," he said and smiled a little. Michelle responded in kind.

"Thank you, sir. All right, someone will be back this afternoon to work that shoulder again and you can move it, but be careful. That joint's going to be weak for a bit. I'm going to check on your friend."

"My friend --"

"Mr. Sanchez? He's down the hall."

"Has he woken?"

She smiled. "I don't know…I haven't seen him yet. Would you like me to stop back by when I'm done?" And set the ethics boards screaming but somehow she didn't think Standish was going to turn her in.

"If it not too much bother…" Standish said and Michelle smiled.

"No problem at all."

And Allison would be glad of the help…amazing what a little kindness could get you, and how easily medical personnel could be ignored.

Sanchez was still unconscious, mostly from the drugs, one leg in a short cast the other in traction. Short staffed, Allison was only too happy to have Michelle remain until her afternoon appointment, to adjust the weights. Even before visiting hours, there were other Agents on site, including the dark haired *boy* from the van, Dunne, looking bewildered but resolute, in the company of an older man.

They spent a few minutes with Sanchez before heading down to see Standish and Michelle waited, timing it--

"I'm sorry. I see you're getting your update," she said, all apology and got a smile from Standish. But she gave an update on Standish to the pair visiting, Dunne looking relieved and the older man, Travis more reserved, but he managed a kind smile for her.

She walked out with them, Dunne leaning against the wall while Travis checked with the uniformed police guarding the rooms.

"Tough on you," she said and he looked up at her, startled. He had beautiful eyes, she thought. They were a little red at the moment.

He shrugged. "Tougher on them."

"Maybe. But they are both going to be fine. You'll see."

He nodded but looked down the hall. "Josiah...Mr. Sanchez...he's gonna walk all right, isn't he?"

"Oh, yeah," she said reassuringly. "They're pretty clean breaks...he'll be in a wheelchair then on crutches for a bit. He's a little older, might take him a little longer to bounce back, but he'll be okay. I need to check his traction…wanna come?"

Reluctant, because Travis was still there but he caught the older man's eye and inclined his head toward Josiah's room.

"Not used to seeing him like this."

"So quiet?"

"Kinda, no…Josiah's pretty quiet, I mean he talks…gets a little drunk and he'll sing."

She grinned. "Big, deep voice, right?" She got a smile for it. "Not quiet though?"

"No, not like…" The reddened eyes got redder, but no tears spilled. Silently, Michelle offered him a tissue and he looked at it numbly before taking it, but only rubbed at his eyes. "You know, if you sit and talk to him, it helps some. Lets him know he's not alone," she said

She didn't linger….enough to get Dunne started on a monologue and excused herself with a smile, her face familiar and unthreatening.

She managed nearly the whole day on the floor, hovering and listening, cataloguing. Access all but secured and certain she would be remembered, she headed out. Tony would be seething by now, irrational and totally out of control.

Just the way she liked him.

12:47 p.m., Saturday, Larabee Ranch.

"Drink this." Nathan handed him a cup and Chris took it, staring at him bleary-eyed and with his head pounding. There were pills too and he took them, swallowing them with the acidic, sharply herbal taste of whatever concoction Nathan had prepared. But it was hot and outside of the taste, it did ease his throat of the ache he hadn't noticed until he swallowed.

A glance at the clock and he wiped at his eyes. "Where's Buck?"

"Laying down in the spare room. I'm going to get him up. Get a shower, Chris. Travis called."

"What -- did they find…" The second round of speculation didn't take him any easier than the first.

"No. Not that he said. He said he wanted us on site."

"Then let's go--"

Nathan's hand was hard and resolute on his shoulder, the dark eyes showing little humor and less patience. "Take a shower. We have time and I need to get Buck up and moving."

Chris batted his hand away with a snarl and got to his feet but Nathan didn't back down. He drew up to his full height, which was a few inches above Chris' own, and he outweighed Chris by a good fifty pounds. There was no give in Nathan's face, but there was no anger either. He was the veritable rock and a hard place, with no give in between.

There was no rush. He didn't need to hear Travis say it to know it. Whatever there was to see would still be there and Nathan wanted him at his best -- as best he could be. Wanted him clear-headed and relatively calm, because if he went down there acting like that maniac he had been earlier in the day, Travis wouldn't let him within five states of the investigation.

Which Vin would have told him to his face, in far less compassionate words and actions than Nathan was using. He raised his hand and saw the almost imperceptible tightening of Nathan's muscles. It shamed him and he let his hand fall lightly and slowly on Nathan's shoulder. "You're right…sorry," he said, voice raspy as sandpaper but Nathan relaxed immediately and nodded.

"I'll get coffee on and I want you to eat something," Nathan said, pushing a little, but Chris only nodded and headed into the bathroom.

Leave it to Nathan to actually know what he was talking about. The shower eased aches he didn't know he had, brought up stings on bruised and abraded flesh he hadn't noticed but needed to be careful of and generally made him feel like less of one of the walking dead. It didn't help his looks any, though, and he avoided looking in the mirror more than was necessary to shave. No wonder Sire had been skittish.

And that brought his head down and his breathing heavy in his chest. Too clear, all too clear. He'd have killed the damn animal had Nathan and Buck not intervened. He was lucky -- or they were -- that he hadn't shot one of them as well. Dressing, he eyed the nearly empty bottle by his bed, even going so far as to touch the open neck. He wanted it so badly, just to get lost in it, even now when he was more or less stable, not shaky, not feeling the gaping maw of grief -- he wanted it, the bottle just big enough for him to crawl into. It's been eight hours since my last drink, he thought, the litany of denial springing to easily to his lips. How long ago had it been since he'd gone to that first AA meeting? Years now, and he was no more a recovering alcoholic than the drunks that littered the streets downtown. More like a drunk in a holding pattern, sometimes too aware when having a beer or a bourbon with the boys how close he was. He hadn't *craved* it in years though. At least three. He did now.

Buck's voice in the hall made him snatch his hand back.

Then he touched it again, but only to carry the bottle into the bathroom and pour it down the sink; rinse it out so he wouldn't smell it, and drop the empty in the trash.

The kitchen smelled of coffee and the amazingly sweet cinnamon rolls that Vin liked occasionally, already warm and glazed. Buck had one in his hand, frosting clinging to his moustache. His eyes were concerned, but Chris only nodded and got coffee. Chris avoided the pastries and went for bread and cheese instead. "Nathan, do me a favor," he asked softly, looking at neither of them. "Clear the liquor cabinet."

It took a moment but Nathan nodded, pulled a trash bag out of the cabinet and headed to the den. Buck dropped his gaze, playing with the icing before finishing the roll in two bites. "Thank you," he said, almost too softly and Chris only nodded.

Nathan returned, the trash bag full and opened the first bottle over the sink. Chris nodded and watched the very fine scotch drain away. "I'm keeping the wine," Nathan informed him and Chris raised an eyebrow. Nathan was non-plussed. "It's good wine," he said.

Chris grinned slightly. "It is. The Scotch was better."

"Like wine," Nathan said and opened a second bottle -- Jack Daniels this time -- and it went down as well. The kitchen stank of it and Chris drew a breath before heading out to the porch to sit on the steps with his coffee and his cheese sandwich.

Buck followed him, easing down gingerly, close enough to touch thighs. He didn't say anything, but when his big hand came to rest on Chris' shoulder, Chris didn't pull away, only drew on the strength offered.

It wasn't until they were on the road, with Buck in back and the wine stored safely away in a box in the far back of Nathan's Jimmy, that Chris thought to ask what Travis had said.

"Fire's are out. Took 'em until this morning to even get that done. McCall was all night getting hold of the property owners -- leasing agents, businesses. And chasing the press back. Mayor's been by twice and the governor's coming in later today. We made the national news," Nathan said. "So far, they're holding the line that it was a gas main breach."

"That won't last…" Chris said on a grunt.

"No…not Travis' call though."

"Anything from Madden?"

"Tons," Buck said, sitting forward. "Half a dozen names, but he was stoned. They are working through the back log of people he deals for. A couple of names that sound promising. Gregory Navin, Estevan Torvado, Pretty Jack Hooper. Not the easiest guys to lay hands on."

Chris rolled the names around in his mind. "Hooper's got a fascination with explosives."

"He does, but last we know he was running his operation out of Chicago."

"Don't mean he didn't come in for a visit. If Madden's been as far as Boulder in the last six months, Ezra would know it."

"You talked to him? Ezra," Chris clarified.

Nathan shook his head, hitting the highway north. "No. JD and Travis went by this morning. He was awake, talking. Gave Travis a few more avenues to check. He's pushing to get out today. Josiah was still out. Figured we'd swing by after we hit the site."

Chris nodded, staring out the window. "JD get anything?

"Signal only." Buck's voice was soft, apologetic. "They were only testing, Chris. Turned it over to the tech teams. Few hours and they may lose that as well. Batteries. He'd pin it down if he could."

"I know. I know, Buck," Chris said and he did. JD would work himself to exhaustion if he thought he could eke out anything from the satellite signal.

Even this far out he could see the pall of smoke hanging over the northwest side of the city, not as thick as he remembered, but still there.

It wasn't any better close up and they had to work through the press to get inside the cordoned off area, Nathan hunting for a place to park that wouldn't leave him hemmed in and trying to get below the still hovering smoke and dust. Chris was just as glad, his first view of the blast site making him suck a breath. They were lucky any of them had gotten out. The bridge looked like the Mother of all earthquakes had hit it, jagged edges of concrete and steel black smudged and scorched, the ground below oily and wet looking. The wreckage of the cars hadn't been moved and there were a team of ATF Explosives experts crawling around the shattered remains in hardhats and harnesses. The Lincoln -- what was left of it -- was almost flattened. Had Josiah and Ezra been in it…Jesus.

Nathan parked and on getting out, Chris got a good look at the building. Not that he thought he wanted to see it again or that he'd ever forget it. The stone was dark, soaked through with the hundreds of thousands of gallons of water and fire suppression foam the fire department had poured onto it.

Somebody had stepped on it. It was all Chris could think of, crown and roof collapsed in, the front of the façade cracked almost to the ground giving the blown-out windows the personality of a drunken jack o' lantern. More scorching and slagged glass and metal from the window frames: icing left to melt in the weak winter sun.

They had cranes up and ladders, hoses snaking in and out of the windows and doors -- IV's for a dying building. He had one brief moment of fear for the fire and rescue workers crawling in and out of the wreckage. The whole thing looked like it would give way any second.

A touch on his arm and he tore his gaze away, following Buck's lead to where Travis and McCall and JD stood. JD looked nothing but relieved to see them, breaking the triad to rejoin his team and Buck laid an arm across his shoulders, JD only to happy to be the support whether Buck actually needed it or not. And even so, Buck stayed close to Chris, warm hand pressed to his lower back as the two groups came together.

Travis eyed him, looking displeased and worried all at once, and Chris was damned glad Nathan had insisted on a shower and shave. He said nothing about Chris slipping away in the night but there was no doubt he'd catch hell for it in one of Travis' less subtle lectures.

McCall looked every year of the sixty he could lay claim to, but there was something so inherently solid about the man, Chris found himself straightening his back, that indefinable frisson of latent militarism rising ancient but hard. And even with all that there was a confusion in the grey eyes. "Did a fly over, twenty minutes ago," he said with typical lack of preamble. Lawrence McCall had never had an ounce of nonsense about him and could be damn near blunt as Chris when it suited him. "Explosives were set on the second floor, took out pillars and supports, brought the third down like pulling a tablecloth out from under a dinner setting," he said. "Roof collapsed in mostly intact. Cracked, cratered, but whole."

There was something in this description that Chris wasn't latching onto and he stared at the building again.

"Tanner didn't fall off the roof or through it," Travis said.

"Didn't fall…" Chris was grabbing blindly for meaning, hearing Buck's sharp intake of breath and Nathan's swearing.

"We don't know where he is but he wasn't on the roof," McCall said and those grey eyes glinted like steel.

"He wasn't on the roof…I saw him!" Chris snapped out. "He warned us--"

"He did. But he wasn't there. There's a chance, a small one that he tried to make the stairs but they've hunted, Chris. They've got crews on the roof checking. There's nothing and no one."

The hand at his back became necessary for support and then to shove him along as McCall started walking, off to the side where a light helicopter waited, rotors turning lazily. Travis stopped Buck and Nathan and JD while McCall swung a finger in the air and the chopper started humming in earnest.

Chris was feeling bile in his throat but he trotted to the chopper, strapping in and taking the headphones. Waste of fuel, he thought, but said nothing, gripping the open frame and having the sickening flash back to too many drop-ops with the Seals. He felt open and exposed, but fear and hope were fighting in him, denying him even the surety of anger as they rose.

The pilot kept them back far enough to not cause problems for the crews on the roof which gave time for Chris to stare and then stare some more.

The asphalt was blacker from water, and cratered as McCall had said, a nearly perfect bowl where the tar and concrete had sagged inward, toward the center of the roof, a huge puddle of water there like a small garden pond. There were cracks, to be sure, but the largest seemed to be less than a foot across, the massive HVAC units twisted and tilted, sheet metal torn and torqued beyond manufacturer's standards. The roof entry door was also tilted, canted inward toward the center, door hanging by a single hinge and propped in place by some piece of equipment Chris couldn't identify but looked too bright and shiny new to have been there before the rescue crews arrived.

Even as they circled, he saw canvas-coated firemen emerge, shiny reflectors on their arms and backs catching the light. The stairs below had to be intact or mostly so. Vin could have gone down…trapped below where the damage was greater? The back of the building had buckled outward but was mostly intact -- the fire escape leaning out like a miniature crane, torn from its moorings when the raised ledge crumbled and fell.

What he'd been told, what they only half knew -- snapped into place. Vin hadn't been on the roof when it went. If he had been, if he could have survived the heat and the smoke, he'd be there still, probably safer than he'd have been on the ground.

Chris leaned back, felt a convulsive shudder of exhilaration and then the plummet of more fear that out paced the helicopter's sudden turn and drop to land again. It was still possible that Vin had tried to make for the stairs and been caught below, but Chris doubted it. He'd have tried for the fire escape maybe, those narrow escape stairs would have held too much anxiety for Vin when he had other options, and he thought briefly of Vin's leap between the buildings.

What it all meant he couldn't process at the moment. Not there. He wasn't there. Which meant there was a chance he wasn't dead.

His stomach churned as they set down, Chris afraid he'd lose coffee, cheese sandwich and a good portion of his intestines if he gave it too much more thought.

He'd been prepared for grief, for anger, for loss. He had no idea hope could be so bitter.  


##   
~Chapter Ten~

2:10 p.m., ATF Headquarters, Denver

Team Seven's open structured offices had never looked so barren for all that the space hadn't changed. When they were all up to it and working, they could scarcely keep from running into each other between trips to the printer or fax or interdepartmental printer, jostling each other to get coffee or sodas out of the frig. Close enough quarters that Josiah tended to spread his notes and research all over the small conference room table or the walls, that Vin tended to sit on the small but sturdy table next to the coffee pot, cross-legged, to slog through what reading matter he had get through, and Ezra more likely than not could be found in the hall in the small lobby across from the elevators when he needed more quiet to immerse himself in a cover than he could find in the bullpen.

Maybe it was the lack of noise, all of them subdued with half the team missing or laid up, because they were, at the very least, a noisy bunch. Even the staccato run of the ancient printer that pushed interdepartmental and NICC notices into every set of field offices in the building wasn't enough to make the room sound and feel anything but wrong.

There were better situated offices, even sections where each agent could have his own office or share it with one other in the building. The pre-fabricated frame of glass and steel that actually provided Chris with an office separate from his team had been a compromise, because Chris had chosen the space -- no more than an overlarge alcove -- because of the long bank of windows along one side. Renovation crews had installed the framing and glass walls and the single door to the area, blocked in the small conference room, run phone lines and cables and power along floor strips and ceiling poles. It was ten long strides to the Elevator, six to the bathrooms, and no need to shout to talk to someone across the room.

For the longest time, Team Seven had found their area called the playpen by their colleagues, be it for the amount of ridiculous toys Buck and JD had lined up on their monitors, or the Nerf guns hidden in their desks. The series of cheap dartboards lining one wall of the conference room that more often than not had a picture of the perp of the week pinned up and perforated. Josiah had a penchant for collecting merchant ads attached to magnets and they littered the open sides of his desk. Ezra and Vin, on opposite sides, tended toward neatness, although Ezra showed organizational skills and Vin tended toward the piling style of filing. Closest to the door both of them, JD and Buck next and then Josiah and Nathan, by Chris' choice if only so he was less likely to catch an errant Nerf ball or a bath from a water pistol with the more restrained pair of his team close by. Of course, closing his door more often would work too and he did, frequently, but never for longer than he had to to finish a phone call or put in some serious review time.

Shaking off the overly silent sense of despair in the open room, Chris tried once more to shake off the sense of shock, as he had been ever since the chopper had touched down. Without a word, Nathan moved to fix coffee, and JD pulled his computer back to life and Ezra's as well. Buck check the NICC teleprinter and Chris only lingered for a moment, picking up the coat and jeans Vin had left in his chair after changing for the op and carried them into his office.

He gave himself a moment to stare out over the skyline, to see all of the greater downtown area, eyes lingering on the dark smudge of smoke far north and west of them. They had a briefing in forty-five minutes, a status check with the other teams, with the reports Travis had been collecting most of last night and this morning.

Five minutes only to himself before he absently set the clothing aside, not realizing he still held onto it and went out, got coffee and perched on the edge of Josiah's desk, idly picking up and moving a series of magnets shaped like the states. Josiah had nearly the entire USA set up. The others moved in closer, none of them suggesting the conference room which, while small, would have seemed cavernous. Chris' eyes fell on Nathan first, summoning him up to a job that wasn't really his but that he did any way. "Ezra and Josiah?"

"Ezra's likely to be out today, or tomorrow morning. He'll be wearing a sling for a couple of days, watching that burn to make sure it don't get infected. But he's already annoying the hell out of the nurses," Nathan said which got a chuckle and a warm glance from Buck. "Josiah's gonna be a bit longer -- week or more till that traction comes off. He's come 'round twice, but they've got him doped up pretty good to keep him from moving -- keep those fractures stable. Doctor said he'd be easing back today though and we should be able to talk to him some tonight. Long term, they don't know. He's not a young man. Be in rehab for a bit, off his feet."

"As soon as we get a better prognosis, I'll talk to Travis," Chris vowed and he'd talk to Josiah, too. He could be wrong, but he didn't think the profiler was ready to be rostered out as disabled. As much as Josiah liked the brain work he did -- the profiling and theorizing -- he liked field work too. "JD, signal trace didn't give us much joy?"

JD looked as though it were his personal failure, shaking his head. "No. Signal is still going, will for awhile until the battery dies, but there's nothing to pin it on. It's a static signal set to send. Nothing to triangulate on unless someone does some programming on the com-sat. We're just bouncing transmissions. In time we might be able to get something, but it's already getting weaker. The range is pretty impressive, it…" he swallowed. "He could be anywhere. I didn't load the GPS software," he apologized and Chris and Buck's hands landed on opposite shoulders almost in synch.

"What about the interrupt on our radios?"

"That was local," JD said with surety. "Narrow range, short burst signal interrupt. Wouldn't have to be big though, not if it was close. Size of a six-pack. And it was close. We checked -- radios out on the block but not much further. Whoever did it could see us," he added. "I'm pretty sure."

Watching them and deliberate, which they knew. They'd been set up but it brought them no closer to who or why.

"You can't buy them -- legally," JD went on. "But they aren't that hard to make."

"So we couldn't talk to each other or was it the signal meant to set off the explosives?"

It was Buck's turn to shake his head. "Nope. Had to be a different remote signal, out of radio range or could be a CB band would have set it off. Bomb squad is still checking for bits…it wasn't timed. Had to be a direct signal, keyed off something specific, with some range to it. Somebody knew what they were doing because it was remote, not lined in like a demolition job."

"They've turned everything over to the forensics team, marking it top of the list," Nathan said. "Even before we knew Vin was missing."

"Theories?"

"Nothing that Travis has laid out but they're hunting down everyone who had a business in the building, most especially that publisher, Good Book Ministries."

It took Chris a moment to pull the storefront back to the forefront of his mind and his eyes narrowed. "Because of Hollinger?"

"Because it makes for as good a motivation as anything else we have. If he wasn't working alone, or was but there's others like him. It's a stretch between church bombings and baiting an ATF Team, but they pulled those threats against Vin early this morning."

"Josiah had a theory about that," Chris said and shook his head at the expectant faces. "That's all I know -- he didn't get a chance to explain it to me. You said he might be awake this afternoon?"

"He might be. I don't know how scrambled his brains are going to be, though, Chris. He took a pretty hard hit."

"We can try," Chris said and slid off the desk. "Travis is going to keep us on the fringe -- or so he said. I'll try not to piss him off again," he said, and the apology was there for Buck and Nathan. Buck grinned at him.

"Don't know, pard. You don't piss him off at least once a day and he'll really think something is wrong."

JD ducked his head, afraid to smile, the seriousness of it all making him more sober than usual. Nathan had no such restraints though and chuckled openly.

By the time the four of them reported for the briefing the tenuous solidarity stretched thin by grief had been strengthened measurably.

Chris still wanted a handful of aspirin and a whiskey so much his mouth watered but he kept focused as the preliminaries were laid out by slides and verbal report -- the entire briefing thorough but there was a sense of urgency and Chris made notes by habit more than anything. It was almost daunting how much they already knew without actually knowing much at all.

The explosives had been high grade, demolition ranked, no dynamite, which ruled out Deke Hollinger's clumsy if lethal attempts. Chris made a note to himself to ask about the reports he and Vin had reviewed, to take a look at the smaller construction firms and see if where the explosives were coming from might not link them to who.

The minister who ran Good Book was being interviewed even as they briefed but they weren't finding much. No threats and the ministry operated solely on donations and sales, with an operating budget that barely covered their rent on the office space. Chris didn't know why that snagged his attention but it did.

Even as the theories were laid out, he could follow their line of thought…dual purpose, maybe, if there was a loosely affiliated group that had backed Hollinger and the church bombings. The news coverage that linked Hollinger's death to the Team and specifically to Vin. But as yet, no one had found anything that linked Hollinger to any group, known or even supposed. Or how in hell any such group could have gotten a line on Ezra's snitch with enough information to lure the team in was still a mystery. Eric Madden was being cooperative but not very helpful -- a call out on the street for a buy, through the usual channels, but he was dodging giving up a name with very real fear, and probably with good reason. He was the bottom of the food chain and the ATF had little to hold him other than a conspiracy charge and even that wouldn't hold him for more than a few days. But what interrogation wouldn't reveal, withdrawal might. Methadone, prescribed and issued would keep him from flying apart but it could delay the gathering of any information of real use by days.

Chris wasn't proud of the fact that his mind went immediately to more direct but less legal ways to get the names they were hunting for.

Two hours later and Travis called it looking worn and tired and older than his years but his gaze was still as direct as he signaled with his eyes for Team 7 to remain after the others filed out. A single report was in his hand. "I've already given this to Mike, before you came in. Forensics found blood on the roof. Vin's type but they'll run a DNA comparison. No way to know if it was before or after the blast. I'm going to need to pick Standish's brain, but I'm thinking that would be best done by his own team members."

"He's already giving himself a headache trying to think of anything else," Nathan said.

"Believe me when I say, I sympathize," Travis said, rubbing his own forehead. "I'm going to head to my office to catch a few hours of sleep. McCall and I are both on pager alert if anything comes up. What I want you to do -- all of you -- is go through your notes leading up to the Hollinger take-down, see if there's anything we've missed. You get something you call me, not Mike, not the investigative team. Clear?"

"Crystal," Chris said, recognizing the need not to do an end run around his most valuable ally.

"We're operating on the presumption that Tanner is alive, finding him is even more of a priority than finding the bomber, but I'm guessing we may find both. On the chance that this isn't related to the church bombings, go over cases, see if there's anyone else who had a grudge against the Team or Tanner or both. Make it a short list," he warned at Buck's rolled eyes and snort.

That was all he had for them and it was more than enough to get them going. By choice they all ended up in the bullpen, none of them acknowledging the need to remain close while they tried to put together a puzzle that's pieces had been tossed all over the downtown area and across three years of teamwork.

And when Chris found time to pray, it was utterly silent, trying to breach a distance he couldn't define. //Hang on, Vin. Wherever you are…just hang on.//

7:52 p.m., Juarez Estate, outside, Denver

The drive was a pitch-black bit of emptiness on the side of the road, the columns that had marked the entrance entirely hidden by a years dense overgrown of evergreen and wild holly. In the day they looked like black marble tombstones for some forgotten, if elegant, cemetery. At night the only thing they represented was a driving hazard.

A hundred feet in and the barricades were still in place. The stenciled "Denver PD" was faded, but they still gleamed pretty whitely, even in darkness. They'd jump out if headlights hit them, but there were none and Michelle had a solid giggle over how very much like a bad spy movie this was.

Headlights off before you made the turn.

If you see other headlights, other cars, keep going, come back later.

Shoot first, hide the bodies later.

She edged around the barricades, feeling the soft gravel give under her tires from the melting snow, but Tony wanted the barricades in place.

Tony wanted a lot of things.

Around the curve and she slowed, flicking on only her hazards: once, twice, three times the charm and the shadows that materialized out of other shadows were like ghosts. Big, strapping black-clad muscle-ghosts with guns.

"Hey, sweetie," she said, recognizing the face and uncaring about his name.

But he knew her, leaning down on the open window to flick his pen-light over the interior of her car while his partner popped the trunk.

Just like a spy movie.

"You being daddy's good girl, honey?" he asked, a little too close, smile and eyes taking in the open neck of her blouse.

Hands off, Tony said, but that didn't mean he couldn't look.

"I'm always daddy's good girl, sweetie." She spread her legs a little, short skirt riding high op on her thighs, bending a knee to only add to the shadows between her legs. And he leaned in, so well trained, so very predictable.

"You fuck with her and the boss will have your balls for a midnight snack," his partner said and eyed her with something like revulsion, maybe really hatred.

"Just admiring the man's good taste," he said, and she laughed and leaned back. Wider then, when his hand touched her thigh and slid upward. "Call it up. Let them knows she's coming."

"Not yet, I'm not, honey," she said and gave him a little purr, a little shimmy when rough fingers slid under the skirt, brushed across her bush and delved a deeper. "That's it, sugar…come on, come," she encouraged. He was half in the widow now, breathing a little heavy, mouth coming close to her as she licked her lips and pushed her pelvis up against his probing fingers. "Feels so good, honey. Come on, come on, give it to me!" she said.

His fingers pressed deep, the butt of his rifle slapping up against the side of the car as he tried to kiss her.

A finger slide over the window controls and closed the gap, Michelle laughing at the shock and surprise and then the pain and panic on his face as she pinned him, trapped him, and shifted her foot to the gas pedal. Just a tap, and he had to move or be dragged. His trapped arm gripped her flesh hard, looking to hold on, cursing her, trying to stop her, flailing for the gears or the keys.

"Come on, baby," she aid, ducking out of his way when he tried to scratch her face, pressing the accelerator a little harder. "Give it to me, baby!! Make me come!" And she was laughing, eyes glitteringly amused, cold.

"You stupid, crazy bitch!! Stop the damn car!! I'm gonna fucking kill you!!"

"Yeah? Gonna kill me? Hurt me?" She floored it, his voice screaming in her ear until she abruptly stopped, thought she heard bones crunch, but it could have been glass. The window was released, and he fell, clutching his shoulder. Out of the car with her own gun in hand. A glance at the ground showed the crunch had been his rifle. She'd run over it.

"Tony's gonna be mad that you broke his gun," she said and he stared at her, wide eyed and in panic, seeing her small caliber pistol aimed at his crotch. He tried to scrabble backward and she stomped down hard on his ankle, crouching to nudge the pistol right up under his balls. Fresh urine wafted up in the cool air and she smiled, knelt on his thighs. The second guard was running up, panting, cursing softly but he didn't interfere.

She moved up, dragging the gun along his belly, up his chest, moving with it until she was kneeling on his shoulders. He outweighed her by a hundred and fifty pounds and he could have tossed her over, broken her – he was terrified.

She smiled, rising up, knees still pressing his shoulders down, gun barrel pressed to his forehead. She was wet and hot and he could smell her, her crotch practically over his face. "Right hand, baby," she cooed. "Under my skirt. Come on, this is what you wanted, right? Well, maybe you wanted that nice big dick of yours in there, but like the man said. I'm Tony's. Don't fuck with me – and you certainly don't get to fuck me," she said. "But you can touch…come on. Do it!" she snapped when he moved too slow and pulled the hammer back.

Fingers touched, shaking and clumsy against her swollen clit, leaving her wetter, hotter. She rocked a little, leaning into the gun, leaving an indentation of the barrel on the skin of his forehead. "Do it…come on…" He fingered her, touched her, started sobbing.

"Awww, poor baby," she cooed and eased the hammer off before rising, standing over him. "I'll send you down some dry pants, baby. Maybe we can do this again sometime," she said, and backed away, getting into her car and pulling away toward the house.

The huge structure, three stories and more, was dark, other cars and trucks and all activity, hidden. A few more weeks and the forestry department would be back up in their watch towers. A few more days only, most of the shipment of weapons had already been moved, ceramics and standard weapons, clearing out the last of Tony's cache before he headed for Hong Kong. A few days only and he'd be out of the country, and her too, if she wanted.

Someone met her to move her car out of sight and she climbed the stairs, into the darkened rooms, the hallways, seeking out the interior rooms, or the cellars below. One cellar in particular and she went there. If Tony wasn't there, well, he certainly knew she was back by now.

The hand on his face felt cool and unreal and he jerked away, half-caught by nightmares and distorted senses and half just startled and afraid. Even before he could entirely register that it was hand that was actually attached to a body, he felt the sharp prick and burn of a needle in his right arm, almost believing the drug was searing his blood as it entered his system.

"What are you …doing…what… want?" He tried to jerk, but between fever and weakness and his bonds, it was a feeble effort at best.

"Trying to keep you alive for a little bit longer…" The voice was female, husky, soft, her lips almost pressed to his. She smelled of perfume and antiseptic, the mingled scents threatening what little control he still had over his guts, and he pulled away, which only reawakened the pain in his body: in his arm and leg and along his face.

He could see, Vin realized, even as the needle was pulled free. Not well with one eye all but swollen shut and the room still shadows and darkness at the edges, but he could see the door and the spill of light across the concrete slab that covered part of the cellar. He almost winced at the brightness of the white shirt his would-be nurse wore, how brassy, pale-blonde her short hair was.

"You are a stinky mess, Agent Tanner," she purred softly, her face close enough for him to see her wrinkle her nose. "This is going to sting a little," she said.

It was more that that. It was burning and searing and the sharp scent of alcohol made him gag along with the pain as she opened a plain white bottle of household rubbing alcohol over his leg, splashing it along the wound, into the torn edges of his jeans. He didn't even realize he was screaming until one of her small hands pressed firmly across his mouth as she continued to wash out the wound with the alcohol.

"Not exactly emergency room procedure but it'll do," she said, seemingly oblivious to his cries or struggles. When she released him, his screams had been reduced to sobs.

"I hate it when you play with my toys."

Vin jerked again at the deeper voice, recognizing it and drawing back unconsciously.

His torturer rose to her feet, stripping off the surgical gloves and tossed them into a corner. "I'm guessing you don't want him dead yet or you'd have put a bullet in his brain," she said as Hartman shouldered his way into the room and turned on the portable spotlight on the table.

Vin flinched again at the brightness, struggling to stay conscious and trying to figure out what was going on between the pair and if it were better or worse for him that they were concentrating on each other rather than him.

"No, not yet…but I hadn't planned on playing doctor, Michelle. I may even leave him here and just let nature take its course. What did you do?"

"A little antibiotic, a little alcohol. He could use a bath," she said stepping in to raise a hand to Hartman's face and trace his cheekbone and down along his jaw.

"Antibiotics? To make him feel better?" Hartman asked. "I thought you liked watching men suffer?"

"I like making men suffer. There's a difference." Michelle stepped back, glancing down at Vin. "Not enough to cure, just enough to keep him from, oh, I don't know, slipping into a coma? Don't you want him to know he's dying?" she asked with a laugh, returning to Vin to catch his chin and lift it.

The small hands were amazingly strong, long nails digging into his jaw, Vin caught by a gaze as icy cold as death itself.

Hartman's hand closed over her wrist, his knuckles white with the strength of his grip. Her grip on Vin didn't change. "My business, m'dear. Don't press. You were supposed to call."

"I was busy," she said.

Hartman jerked her away, slamming her slighter form into the doorway. She gave only the smallest of cries -- more a sharp exhalation of breath, than protest -- but didn't move, even when Hartman's hand closed around her throat. "You're on my time."

She said nothing only smiled at him, even as his grip tightened. A moment later he released her. "Clean him up if it's so important to you." He gripped her arm. "Later. What did you find out?" he demanded, pulling her from the room.

They left the light, and Vin didn't know if he should be grateful for that or not. Michelle's attentions had reawakened pain and aches that had largely slipped into numbness, and there was a throb in his arm that made him nauseated. There was nothing left to vomit up though and his mouth felt filled with cotton and his lips dry and sore.

Keep him alive a little longer, she'd said, only Hartman didn't seem much interested in that idea. He flexed his fingers and tried to shift, as aware as Michelle of the sorry mess he was, his own stench only partly alleviated by the coldness of the room.

He wasn't used to feeling so entirely helpless. He couldn't get free, he could only pray someone was looking for him, but if not his own team…the despair and grief rose up again, along with the anger, tired though it was. Any conflict of his soul he'd had in putting Hollinger down in nearly shooting Father Bennet vanished at the thought of being given even half a chance at Hartman. He'd kill the man without hesitation, without question, and with no regret.

Given half a chance.

It could have been minutes or hours before Michelle returned. She sported a fresh bruise on her cheek and more along her arms but she seemed unconcerned. She dropped off towels and a sponge on the table. "Can't free your arms, sport," she said but pulled a chair closer. The flicker of a shadow and Vin could see someone outside the door -- one of the men that had subdued him in the van, he thought.

Either the drugs or the activity seemed to be working toward giving him a clearer head, but Michelle wasn't a fool. She did undo his ankles. "Brannon, give me hand," she said and the looming guard came in, very carefully setting his gun out of reach. He wrinkled his nose, covering his mouth as if he were going to be sick and Vin smiled to himself. Good. As long as the bastard didn't vomit on him, Vin hoped he would be sick all night.

Neither of them were particularly gentle as they manhandled him onto the chair, and he passed out or came close to it as circulation was restored to his cramped legs. When he was more aware, he found the chair had been pushed back toward the post, easing some of the strain on his arms. His legs were free though, but trembling, even without him putting weight on them. Michelle was crouched at his feet, working a pair of heavy utility scissors through his slacks. Brannon was gone, but Vin could hear him in the outer chamber.

"If you kick me, your hands will still be caught," she said easily, the metal of the scissors was cold on his calf. "No hot water I'm afraid," she said, sliding the blade up along his thigh.

"Why are you….he's gonna kill me any way."

"Yes, he is," she said softly. "But he hasn't' yet…and wouldn't you like to be there when he tries?"

It made no sense to Vin, and this woman was a crazy as Hartman. He shivered as she peeled the cloth back, then hissed as she pulled fabric from the wound on his inner thigh.

He was cold, the pain threatened to overwhelm him again, but he didn't struggle, watching the small gloved hands and they systematically cut away his clothes, pulled the remnants of his shirt from his back and left him naked and shivering. He couldn't help but flinch as she turned on the hose again, but the stream was gentle if icy, and she worked some kind of cleanser over his skin, working quickly. The worst of the filth was rinsed off and she tossed a towel over the wound on his leg.

Vin watched with detached fascination as the already dark cloth grew darker.

"You won't bleed to death," she said and came back with gauze and packing, almost straddling his lap to bandage his arm first. "Infection maybe…"

He hissed softly at the odd mix of gentleness and roughness as she wrapped his arm. She wasn't that concerned with not hurting him. Then she squatted to work the padding into the ugly, open and incredibly raw looking gouge in his thigh. She was gentler there, sliding the wrapping gauze under his leg and around, work upward along his thigh in steady, almost hypnotic movements. She snipped at the bandage and secured it, then rested her hands on his thighs, sliding them upward toward his groin, a smile on her face as she watched his.

There was no place to pull back to, and while he thought of kicking her, he wasn't actually sure he had that much control over his legs. Fresh sweat, unrelated to fever, broke over his skin and she lifted one hand to brush it back into his hair. "I don't think I've ever been fucked by a federal agent," she whispered, close to his ear, gripping the back of the chair to steady herself as she straddled his legs once more and settled her weight slowly

It was pain more than anything that made him groan, still trying to press back against the metal chair. But she was right there and even so, there was no interest at all -- involuntary or otherwise, but he couldn't so easily avoid the awareness of her, of bare skin, the sharp womanly scent of her as she slid closer along his lap, gripping the chair with both hands.

And she rocked, but even without letting all her weight fall entirely on his legs, another shuddering groan escaped him from the agony of it, the burn as swollen flesh of his thigh pulled and sparked little fires along his nerves. There was no other response from him, at least not of the kind she seemed to want, but his soft whimpers, even as he fought them, seemed to do more than his limp dick would or could manage. Fingernails dug lightly into his face, along his jaw, teasing at his ears as she tilted his head back, eyes glitter dark in the shadows, but he could see the gleam of small white teeth, the curve of full lips. Dazed and nauseated, he could only think the look on her face was a hungry one. "What's the matter, honey? Don't you *like* girls?" she asked with a hissing, whispery demand, as if his answer might actually mean something. "Waiting for Tony to come give you some attention? He might…but not for this," she warned, one hand leaving his face to slide between them, to fondle him, the barest twitch of response her only reward and Vin shuddered again and tried to wrench away, purely on instinct.

Not even from fear so much, as memory, especially in this place and this room, things he'd half forgotten or put away, rising up to mock him, to torment him. Her nails raked across his belly and up, then down: she seemed fascinated by the flutter of muscle along his stomach and chest. Rising up, she took the weight off his legs and he nearly passed out again, felt the sob build in his chest just from the relief from pain, and he tried, desperately, to pull his legs up, to protect himself, somehow…

The injured one only trembled and protested but the other he managed to pull up, to twist to the side. He'd have curled up in the chair if he could have. Her hands were too hot on his skin, and embarrassingly, amazingly, gentle as she held his head up and offered him water -- her torments set aside for something else.

"Shhh…" so soft, another whisper on his skin, her fingers pushing his hair back. "Aw…now…he'll get bored and it will be fast…" she said and the difference between comfort and torment was nothing more than a fine thin hair.

"Not fast enough," Vin heard himself stutter out, too tired to even think that courting disaster in this was probably not wise.

"Probably…" she agreed and chuckled, before her tongue traced along the outside of his ear. "Pray for slow, Agent Tanner. Because they're looking for you…will be…"

Vin swallowed, frozen by both fear and hope. "Wh…who? Who…they're …my team...Chris…" he sobbed again, shocked that the name had escaped him. "Dead…he said…"

"You can't trust, Tony," she chided, stroking across his chest. "He's crazy. And a liar…and very, very mean." The odd cant to her voice brought Vin's head up slightly, to stare at her, not daring to question or demand, and her expression was not focused on him but she was looking at him, generous mouth thin and twisted, but it was still a smile. "So, you wait, Agent Tanner. You can do that, can't you?" she asked, fixing her gaze on him again. "It won't be easy…he wanted you badly…still does, but he's all business right now. Pleasure…that's later. Always put off…"

The water had left his lips moist, his tongue not so swollen and dry. "Alive…Tell me…"

She smiled again, and pressed her mouth to his, then bit him, hard enough to draw blood, to make him yelp and then she pulled away, wiping the blood from her lip with one finger. "Brannon…"

Nothing more. She didn't wait and Brannon was left to move him from the chair, which he did by grasping Vin's arm and pulling him up enough to pull the chair out from under him and then let him go. Let him fall. He fell awkwardly, with sufficient torque to wrench his shoulder harshly enough to bring a strangled scream to his lips before he passed out again.

(continued...)


	11. Chapters 11 - 15

# Credens Furtiva (Stolen Trust)

  


##  Part III of the "To Make of Heaven, Earth" arc

  
** by Maygra**

[chapters 11 - 15]   
  


##  ~Chapter Eleven~

** 11:40 p.m., ATF Headquarters, Denver**

Travis wouldn't be fooled twice and Chris gave him his word that he wouldn't go home alone and he meant it.

If he left the office at all.

They'd taken the afternoon, Chris finally checking on the other two members of his team and not surprised to see Ezra dressed and up, arm in a sling but it was a reminder to keep him from using it too much as opposed to keeping him immobile. His physical therapist gave him detailed instructions and Ezra actually listened. And she lingered for questions, Chris eyeing her only briefly to take in the short blonde hair, the long-fingered but strong looking hands. A spark of something, maybe, between she and Ezra, and Buck was all smiles and flirts -- subdued for him but close enough to normal that Chris felt at least one tightly wound nerve loosen a bit.

She was there too, when they finally got in to see Josiah, adjusting the bed and the traction some to make him as comfortable as he could be. She so easily handled the needs of a man that couldn't do for himself, Chris would have expressed more gratitude for her cheerfully calm acceptance if he hadn't been so desperate to try and get some kind of coherent information out of Josiah.

"He's still pretty dopey," she murmured, offering Josiah a cup and straw, but then backed off and Chris took her place, pressing one hand on the bed near Josiah's head and the other resting on the bed rail.

"Josiah…" he said it, almost whispering for a reason he didn't really understand, but it occurred to him, as he watched the older man struggle for awareness and recognition, that Josiah was blissfully unaware of the events of the past twenty-four hours. He didn't know…hadn't felt the loss Vin's disappearance and presumed death had layered on the rest of the team.

And Josiah looked worse than Chris had imagined, the age he usually carried so proudly and energetically settling deeper into his face and into the creases and bruises of his skin than Chris had expected. It all seemed wrong, because Josiah was a big man, and strong -- physically and in personality when he was awake and aware and thinking as he so often did over some question or puzzle. Quick too, to the amazement of his annual physical review, that he could still move as fast, reflexes slowed little for a man that was less than ten years from retirement.

It was a struggle then to watch, to see Josiah fight for what had happened and where he was, battling not so much his injuries as the remnants of surgery and drugs and the unfamiliar surroundings. To watch him do as Ezra had done and track his gaze as it settled on each face by his bedside and see one he didn't know, who smiled and excused herself, and then to count again.

"He's missing…you remember the explosion?" Chris prompted and Nathan offered more water.

"I remember…running," Josiah's voice rumbled, even hoarse as it was, but the sound was reassuringly deep for so breathy an answer. "Guess…I didn't run fast enough."

Chris had to smile at that. "Almost…you took a bad hit, 'siah. You're gonna be laid up awhile," Chris offered and watched again as Josiah's eyes sought out Ezra, lips quirking up in a half-smile at his battered and sling-armed partner.

"You ran faster…"

"Like an Olympic runner," Ezra said, with a chuckle. "No gold medals for either of us, my friend."

Josiah nodded and his eyes slid closed again, Chris half-afraid he'd slipped back under the drugs, but a moment later they opened again, perceptibly clearer. "Vin's missing?" He seemed to grasp onto the thought, locking eyes with Chris.

"Yeah," Chris said. "It was a set up…for all of us, or just Vin. We don't know. And we've got damn little to go on. Before the op – we changed plans to have you ride with Ezra. You remember?" he asked and got a nod and a blink, holding Josiah's grey eyes with his own. "You said you had a theory…on the threats Vin got. Something about Hollinger. We were gonna talk about it," Chris prodded, searching for some kind of recognition in Josiah's expression and taking a deeper breath when he got it.

More water, and Nathan leaned in closer to make sure he caught what Chris might not, while Buck, JD and Ezra gave the man a little space. "Hollinger…his threats were all…it was institutional. Anger at the hierarchy, at the money spent on the buildings…" Josiah said, which wasn't as clear as Chris as hoped. "But the threat on Vin – more personal. Like someone had a beef with him. Or maybe…possibly angry because of Hollinger's death. Shifting blame…"

"You think Hollinger was working with someone?" Chris asked but Josiah shook his head and winced, tried to shift and couldn't, a grumble like a lion's growl escaping him as he sought a better position. A blonde head bent near Chris, the therapist still there, and Chris thought she shouldn't be…but she only adjusted the bed, earning a sigh of relief from Josiah and then she was gone again, out of Chris' perception as Josiah cleared his throat.

"No…but someone watching him, maybe approving of what he was doing. Hollinger was off on the churches…on the money spent on buildings instead of God's work. Looking for status…instead of offering salvation. ..but the other…blaming people…blaming Vin…it's not the same…" He struggled for it, grabbing at Chris' hand when he laid it on the broad chest to soothe. "He called on Sodom as the example…for thieves and perjurers…whores and Pharisees…"

Chris took that in with a chill tightening along his spine, Josiah looking less clear and more fanatical. The wording of the threat taking on other meanings than they hadn't read into them previously. Almost blindly he sought Buck's gaze, then Ezra's for reassurance or denial. It was worse somehow, more frightening than it had been, that whoever had called in the threat knew that much about Vin, if they had. Knew him as more than a face and a name on a television screen from a far too public operation. It also threw the field of suspects into the realms of countless, because it could be anyone -- not just from the Team's casefiles, but from before, from when Vin was with the Marshals or even when he was working as a bounty hunter.

"…reading from a script…" Josiah was saying and Chris had to jerk his attention back, embarrassed and startled that he'd lost track of what Josiah was saying. "Started off smooth…like he was reading, but then…have Tim Asoto listen to it, boss…"

Another profiler and Chris looked up to find that Nathan was taking notes, paying attention as the rest of them weren't.

"I told you it was spare rationale," Josiah said, voice soft and near apologetic and he looked to be in more pain than he had been, something Buck noticed and found the pump that would allow Josiah to administer his own doses of painkillers.

"It's more than we had, 'siah," Chris said gripping his shoulder lightly and rubbing a little until the man relaxed as the pain killers flooded his system. "Rest up…we'll be back to check, keep you updated…"

"Leave me…Nate…your notebook," Josiah asked and Nathan agreed, tearing off his sheet of notes and leaving the paper and pen on the rolling table. Chris squeezed his shoulder once more and left, needing a moment to let Josiah's words work through so he could look at them objectively.

They weren't definite, impressions only and Josiah was far from being up to par, but Chris trusted his team's instincts as much as he trusted his own and even inserting reasonable doubt into them, into their meaning, made him uneasy.

The others made their own good-byes to Josiah and they all headed out together. Nathan pushing a little hard for Ezra to go home and Ezra adamant that he hadn't fought his way out of the hospital to face an empty apartment. It didn't help Nathan's case that he'd brought the man fresh clothes.

He found Buck at his side as they headed for Nathan's SUV, limping still and looking no happier than Chris felt. "Lot of effort for a personal grudge," Buck murmured.

It was and Chris couldn't deny the clawing panic in his stomach at the thought that were it personal, and they'd meant to take Vin alive…

It must have showed on his face because Buck's hands were there on his shoulders steadying him. A moment later he realized Ezra and Nathan and JD had managed to form a kind of living shield around him as he wiped at his face and stared up at a weak sun to blink. "If they wanted him alive…chances are…there's time," Chris said, voice far steadier than the rest of him.

"We've got a lot of files to get through then," Nathan said.

"I surmise that AD Travis has teams working on the bombing angle?" Ezra said, cradling his arm. He looked less than fully functional but Chris found his own gaze caught by green eyes and a set mouth. "Which provides us with opportunity to look into other scenarios."

Chris nodded and moved, but not so fast that he pulled away from Buck. "Explosives prelims should be in by now. Reports from the ops…from Team 3…"

They had a place to start and by the time they reached the federal building, had divvied up the tasks, letting Nathan coordinate and link up what facts they had. He'd been spending a lot of time with Josiah, he said with a faint smile.

Hours later it was Nathan who thought to order food, and then to nudge Ezra into taking a pill and laying down for a bit in Chris' office. The suggestion was met with predictable resistance but strength of will alone wasn't enough to keep Ezra on his feet. He was already pale.

Feeling the need to at least show some concern for the rest of them rather than let Nathan shoulder it all, Chris handed him the reports on the explosives. "You can read lying down," he said and all in all he actually found himself less likely to get distracted by darker thoughts with Ezra stretched out and rustling papers.

A half hour later and the noise stopped, Chris glancing up to see Ezra's eyes closed, injured arm pulled snug to his chest and resting on his folded up suit jacket. The reports he'd been reading held firmly to his stomach as if he were afraid to let go of them. To miss some clue.

A simple throw rested in the top of the small closet and Chris left the papers after a testing tug seemed more likely to wake Ezra than let him rest. He covered him, made sure he wasn't disturbed and gathered up his coffee cup.

The outer office was quiet, but he could see them, Buck and JD huddled up together at JD's computer, pouring over some report or another, Buck making notes. Nathan had cleared the top of his desk, laying out index cards the same way Chris had seen Josiah do a hundred times. He got an encouraging smile from JD as he passed -- which seemed both odd and typical. Buck's eyes said more than words ever could and Nathan was trying to be guardedly optimistic even in the face of his obvious frustration.

Nathan's eyes shifted toward the office and Chris shook his head. "Sleeping. He's fine, " he said, more to reassure Nathan than an accurate assessment of Ezra's condition. Chris got his coffee, eyes lingering on Vin's mug for a moment too long before he jerked his eyes away, distracted by a phone.

Buck caught it and was rising, a murmured affirmative spoken as he patted JD's shoulder. "Keep at it." He looked at Chris and jerked his head. "Vid tapes in from the leasing office…"

Chris almost swallowed the whole mug of coffee in one gulp but was following. "Leasing office?"

Despite his limp, Buck headed for the stairs, for the AV department one flight down, steps and words echoing hollowly in the stairwell. "The leasing agent for the building. They collect rents -- in cash sometimes, so they vid the office visits. Been hit twice in the past year getting robbed on the first of the month when the rents are due. He had a half dozen people looking at the property -- potential tenants. Somebody had to get in there to plant the explosives."

The steel door popped and Chris caught it, hand on Buck's back when the man stumbled in his hurry, the focus of his worry shifting to Buck who was pushing himself. "They aren't going anywhere, Buck."

Buck stared, gaze blurring and Chris gripped his arm tightly for a moment. God, none of them were holding it together very well -- and on the heels of that thought came the idea that they shouldn't have to. Not for this. "We'll find him," Chris said, feeling that it might actually be more possible than not, surprised at his own surging hope.

And it steadied Buck, brought some power to that grin of his. "You bet your skinny ass we will," he said, and moved again, more sure footed. Chris almost laughed at it, the feeling reinforced.

The surveillance analysis team had three of the five available monitors tagged for the case -- Chris reassured again that the rest of the ATF was taking finding their missing agent as a top priority. They had the leasing agent there too, in a separate room, getting what identifications from him they could. He looked nervous and scared, vaguely Latino in appearance and young, mid-twenties at best, swarthy face and dark eyes as earnest as an errant schoolboys and taking the reassurances of the interviewing agent with wary gratitude.

Brock Graham looked up as they entered, and gave them both a cursory nod. "Busy agency -- we've only started sorting out tenants from potential tenants and realty agents. Capturing stills to see if we get any matches."

Chris nodded but felt that spike of hope fail a bit. Face matches off grainy consumer quality video cameras was going to take time -- time they didn't have. He didn't have any suggestions though and the witness would help them sort the most-likelies from the knowns and unknowns.

Buck was undaunted though, settling in next to Brock who was fast forwarding to mark the tapes, for captures, checking times and dates, flagging repeat faces.

Chris settled in behind Angie Costello, flipping through the captured images to catalogue them by general types: race, hair color, facial structure, identifying marks, giving each image an id and sending one set to the printer and another through the system to where they could be matched and coded by type to hundreds of thousands of other images from bookings, arrests, tagging into agencies across the country. The system was new, like the DNA labs, input being done now in order to build up the database as much as for this specific case. The photos were all flagged as witnesses, not necessarily potential suspects. The ATF would have the ACLU all over them if they knew even this much data were being tracked -- paranoia over privacy and racial profiling putting further constraints on the way the ATF did their jobs when the odds were already overwhelmingly against them.

It could be hours or days before they actually got any hits, for now, Chris studied every photo looking for anything that would trigger thought or motive, the slightest suspicion.

It took them a couple of hours, Chris breaking once to check with Nathan upstairs and to check with the hospital. JD was off again with the communications boys -- desperately trying to find anything in the tape or signals. It could be as frustrating as the thirty or forty pictures Chris had been studying over and over.

Buck was looking a little grey and Chris felt worse than Buck looked, ready to call it before both of them fell on their faces. He tapped Buck's shoulder and waited for him to rise stiffly.

"Angie, darlin', can you send a copy of those prints upstairs?" Buck asked the tech.

"I can, Buck, but it's a lot…you think you're going to recognize somebody?"

"If it's anyone from one of our cases, yeah," Buck said, his resolve giving Chris a much-needed inoculation against the despair that was rising again. We might," he said and they left them to once more check with the others. They took the elevator this time and Buck studied Chris without much expression. "You think you could get any sleep?"

Fatigue was dogging Chris' every step but he shook his head. Being tired wasn't the same as being ready to sleep -- the very idea of lying down with his own thoughts without the stimulation -- minor as it was -- of other people, of the noises in the office, made his stomach clench.

Buck only nodded in agreement, waiting for the elevator to ping and the doors open.

JD was all but bouncing on his feet when they hit the office, Nathan looking both surprised and confused. Like a missile reacquiring a target JD shifted his attention.

"We've still got signal!" he said and Chris could only stare, not understanding.

"Signal from what?"

"From SatCom…not the GPS tracker," JD said. "It wasn't set, but we thought we'd lose it…Travis called somebody or McCall did -- not enough pull to get the SatCom in Omaha to do anything but we can use local triangulation. They've got trucks out now. It's not at the site…the building. They've eliminated the signal from the building--it's static but it's fading. We need to find a directional alignment--"

It was rapid and excited and Chris didn't understand half of it. "JD!" his voice was sharper than he would have liked. "What's it get us? What have they found?"

Startled, JD took a breath and then a deeper one. "The new com system. Vin was wearing it. Travis pulled some strings and got the mobile trackers on site. The signal we're getting isn't coming from the blast site. It didn't get lost in the explosion. Which means it's likely to be wherever Vin is," he said, hazel eyes meeting Chris' to make sure he understood. "They are working outward, but it's going to take time -- and there's no guarantee that the signal won't fail before we get anything…but chances are it's not far…I mean, somewhere within a hundred miles, give or take…" JD finished and then looked away as if just now realizing how much area that covered. A hefty chunk of the state and far beyond the metro Denver area.

It sank slowly into Chris' brain. Clicked with other facts. A hundred miles, but there were limits to how far Vin could have been taken. A hundred miles eliminated air flight, left miles of roads and mountains. Any other clue, any other motive might give them a place to look.

"The van…" Nathan said it first as that little fact slid into Chris' brain as well.

Chris didn't say anything, only grabbed for the nearest phone. They'd been worried about the damn thing and team three had been watching it…left it when the explosions started. That much they knew. He hadn't seen it on the fly-by, hadn't expected to.

The tension in the room was high, enough to apparently rouse Ezra, who looked alert but in no way healthy.

It didn't surprise Chris that the avenue was being explored, that the registration had been pulled and an APB was out for the vehicle. His wasn't the only team that could do through investigative work.

The printer started almost immediately after his call, Angie's photos running off in all their black and white glory. Buck grabbed them and parceled them out, looked up when the report on the van came in. A commercial fleet vehicle, and Chris and Ezra were looking back over the reports Vin and Chris had been searching only two days before, Ezra taking Chris' office chair and Chris on the desk, using the same kind of check off routine.

There were no matches. Chris had been so sure -- keen on the idea that one of the grading, landscaping or demolitions companies they'd been looking at to try and find where Hollinger had gotten his explosives would match up with the commercial lease.

"Renovations," Ezra said, disappointed as well. "Residential and commercial construction. It's a big firm. They could have hundreds of active contracts."

"I know…pull them." Chris glanced at the clock -- it wouldn't happen tonight. "In the morning. Put the request in, Ezra…"

"Tomorrow's Sunday," Ezra reminded him. They'd had a difficult enough time tracking down businesses on a Saturday. "Although…" he got up. "The leasing agent would know if there was anything being done in the building. Which would confirm a legitimate reason for the van to be there at all."

Chris nodded, and Ezra went to pursue it.

The skies outside Chris' office were dark, a deep gray-blue courtesy of downtown Denver's contribution to the light pollution. He could see a hundred miles away on a clear day.

Vin was out there, somewhere, and Chris swallowed against emotion lodged in his throat, closing his eyes to press his forehead to the cool glass. They were up against impossible odds unless something close to a miracle happened and still Chris found himself silently praying that Vin could hold on, was holding on.

Time. There wasn't near enough time for any of it, not for this, and not for he and Vin.

And still Chris prayed it would be enough.

##  ~Chapter Twelve~

  
**  
Sunday, 3:45 a.m., Juarez Estate  
**  
The house was dark, as it should be. Quiet too, although from the widow of the front suite on the second floor, Anthony Hartman could see the silent shadows moving across the lawn. He expected no less because the men he'd retained so close to this hub of operation were a step above hired muscle. Mercenaries would be closer, except they weren't -- not in the paramilitary sense. They had no interest at all in fighting for someone else's idea of justice or freedom.

The house was cold, the power off and even the portable generators housed in the empty stables silent. This far out sound -- especially mechanical sound -- carried and echoed across the rise of the country side. A car on the road ten miles away would announce its presence long before the headlights would be seen.

Behind him, Michelle was huddled under the thermal quilts and down comforter like a child. Earlier she'd been face down and all but screaming into the chilled sheets as Tony had taken out both lust and frustration on her, getting off on being able to overwhelm and subdue her with strength and a few hard smacks, before letting her finish him off with her mouth still bloody. He'd almost gagged her when her screaming got too loud, but it was all for show, or so he thought, because afterward she'd been as cuddly and contented as a kitten.

It had taken the edge off his frustration but not subdued the source of it and he had only himself to blame for the trouble indulging his need for revenge had caused.

There were feds all over the downtown area -- which in truth was too far to lead them here, but it was making his buyers, if not his transportation resources, increasingly nervous -- and cautious. They wanted to wait until the circus died down a bit, and Tony was in no position to wait.

He'd brought it on himself, and even agitated, he didn't lay the blame on the man he had shackled and captive in the basement. His own ego had driven this spike in his plans.

But that didn't mean Tanner couldn't provide an outlet for his frustration, much as Michelle had done. Ultimately, now that the first euphoria of having pulled off what he still thought was a brilliant coup against the federal agency and the agents that had disrupted his comfortable lifestyle, he'd have to deal with Tanner permanently. But it had hardly been high on his list as he'd spent the better part of the last two days trying to reassure his buyers that things were under control and that the ATF was too busy with the mess downtown to even notice the sudden flurry of activity on the east side.

He almost wished he were inclined in the manner of his former employer. Michelle had been almost coming at the thought of the distress her advances on Tanner had produced, and Anthony could only imagine what a little more invasive assault would cause. Tanner didn't show any reluctance to scream when he was hurt, the defiance in him wearing thin. But he hadn't begged yet, and Tony was of a mind that was what would satisfy him. A little begging and then he'd very neatly put a bullet in Tanner's brain and drag his body up in the hills where no one was likely to find him.

Or leave him here. It had a certain appeal, no matter who discovered him, be it a hapless real estate agent or some combination of clues and trails that would eventually lead the ATF here, once more. That appealed as well -- that the cause of Chen Juarez's downfall would be found in the same place.

He toyed with the idea. He wasn't particularly interested in sticking any part of his anatomy into Tanner's filthy body, but he had men on his payroll who would for little more than a bonus check and an hour with Michelle -- as long as that was accompanied by Hartman's assurance that she wouldn't cut or bite anything vital off.

Of course, if he went through with all that Juarez had planned, he'd be doing little less than carving his name into Tanner's flesh. He had little intention of returning to the states -- business was more lucrative elsewhere -- and had he not already so thoroughly damaged the agent, he might have even given serious thoughts to unloading him for profit into some of the more gainful markets.

Trafficking in flesh, however, was one of the business pursuits Hartman had dropped after Juarez's death. The morbidity rate was high, the profits marginal for so high a demand. The early colonial slave-traders had been much more successful than current smugglers and slavers.

As much as it might satisfy him to actually be pegged as the man who had successfully kidnapped, tortured and killed a federal agent, he also planned to enjoy business right up until retirement, which, if he held to his course, would be in less than five years.

He prepared and lit a fine cigar, studying the cherry red glow for a moment before fetching his coat and heading downstairs.

His men were alert, well-used to their boss' unpredictable schedule. The basement was only slightly less cool than the rest of the house, but it was damp. Even unconscious, Tanner was shaking, skin icy to the touch, the reek of him barely masked by the heavy aroma of Tony's cigar.

The bandages were already soiled, the one on his arm less so, the other stained with blood, mud and urine, and that last stench was sharp in Tony's nostrils, as he prodded the lax form with his boot. Tanner was sprawled awkwardly, the chains securing him to the room's support biting into the flesh of his arm, and pulling his shoulder awkwardly.

He squatted, drew deeply on his cigar and applied the glowing end to the exposed flesh of Tanner's uninjured leg.

The stench of burning flesh mixed with other fulsome aromas for a moment before the pain sank deeply enough in Tanner's consciousness to elicit a response. He wrenched away: suddenly for him, but sluggish by any other standards, a sob escaping him as the burn and the smell registered. Tony only smiled and reached for him again, chuckling when the scrabbling motion to escape only tangled his prisoner further in his bonds -- the chains nothing compared to the helplessness and horror he could see on Tanner's face.

"I could scare up a cattle prod for you, Agent Tanner. It seemed effective enough when Chen used it. Maybe a little kiss of it here?" he said, hand gripping the burned thigh to drag his thumb along the inner skin.

Michelle had been right -- threat of sexual assault all but had Tanner trying to free himself like an animal chewing at a trapped limb. "The way Michelle has been swishing her ass in front of my boys, I'm thinking one bit of ass is as good as another. What do you think, Agent Tanner…Vin? A couple of ex-cons -- you might even know few. It wouldn't be the first time you put out for the job, now would it?" he asked. His hand caught Tanner's jaw in a relatively gentle grip; wary though, the earlier bite still fresh. "Would you have gone down on Chen if it had been required? You seem to have enjoyed it with your friend…what was his name…Edward. Chen almost had an orgasm watching the two of you." He gave Tanner's thigh a comfortable pat. "Brannon!" He called and the guard appeared, looking only a step above bored but attentive. "I think Agent Tanner is feeling a bit lonely. Any of the boys might want to keep him company?"

"Not unless he bathes. Even they got standards," Brannon said, lip curling at the stench that Hartman no longer seemed to notice.

"Pity," Hartman said, never taking his eyes off Tanner. Might be worth it to take Brannon's advice, hose the filth off him and throw him into one of the stables. It would be like tossing a rabbit to hungry dogs.

He released Vin then and rose, studying the man for a long moment before his foot lashed out, landing hard between the bruised, bleeding and burned thighs. Tanner wasn't on his game enough to avoid it and the scream that erupted from his throat was cut off abruptly as his eyes rolled back and he slumped to the side, only barely held up by the chains at his wrists.

His eyes roved over the small room, nose twitching and he glanced up, smiling slightly at the hook still extending from the ceiling beams. He nodded to Brannon and fished the cuff keys out of his pockets. "Let's get him up, then you get to hose him down."

Brannon rolled his eyes, looking disgusted but unafraid. The fed was so much dead meat already, but Hartman was the boss. And he was bored. Better one dying fed than anyone else within reach.

At least maybe it wouldn't smell so bad in here.

6:45 a.m., Ezra Standish's townhome, Denver.

Nathan had insisted and Chris didn't have the strength -- or the wit -- to argue with him. He acquiesced to his insistence on driving Ezra home, while JD made sure Buck got some rest. And since Nathan wasn't willing to drive Chris out to the ranch and Chris wasn't up to facing Vin's apartment, he ended up at Ezra's place, in the spare bedroom.

He was asleep before Nathan let himself out.

Mercifully he didn't dream. There were no nightmares which made Chris wonder, on waking, if Nathan hadn't slipped him something. He wouldn't, really, although the last cup of coffee Chris remembered drinking had been oddly bitter.

Which probably had more to do with the six he'd had before that than anything. And it was coffee he smelled on waking. Fresh and hot, which made his stomach tense. Food first, maybe, regretting he'd left his antacids at the office.

But Ezra, bless him, had a well-stocked medicine cabinet in the guest bathroom. A couple of Tums, a quick wash and brushing of his teeth with one of the unused toothbrushes also in the cabinet made him feel more human and awake, and made him wonder if Ezra had more company than he'd realized.

It was only when he headed for the kitchens, still wearing only his boxers, that he realized it was just going on seven in the morning. The coffee was done, and the pot not timed. There were bagels on the counter and a tub of cream cheese. Real cream for the coffee and Chris thought that might be a good idea.

The mug was heavy, the warmth against his palms welcome as he held it and then put his back to the counter to take the first careful swallow. The cream blunted the sharp taste he was used to, gave it a texture he'd never been able to say he liked, but it was smoother. He contemplated the bagels and decided he wasn't quite up to food just yet. Sleep did wonders but he could feel the restlessness build, a twitch along his nerves that made his fingers tighten on the cup. The quietness in the townhouse was unnerving, almost oppressive.

//Got a burr under your saddle, cowboy?//

Vin?

//You're hearing things…need to work some of them thoughts out…get it clear…//

Clear was a long way away. He hadn't even missed Vin on waking up. At home, if Vin was up before him, which was often, he'd register it first, that he was alone in bed. But Vin came back. Always, with coffee or a slap on Chris' ass to get him moving. He'd gotten lazy at getting up, knowing, relying on the knowledge that Vin would wake him. Sometimes wake him a little earlier than he needed to. Chris rarely complained; or if he did, Vin could change his mind.

He hadn't even missed him not being there.

//I'm already gone…//

He wasn't though. Vin was waiting, somewhere. Had to be…Chris was the one gone already. Separating himself from something he didn't believe but couldn't entirely deny. The shaking of his hands got worse and he set the cup on the counter, still holding it. He had no idea how to make it through the next moment, or the next, but they came and went, and he found himself sucking in harsh, irregular breaths. Forcing himself to action he lifted the mug to his lips.

The cream all but soured on his tongue. He needed the sharp bitterness, swearing softly he dumped the cup and rinsed it out, pouring another cup: black, hot, taking a gulp with little caution just to feel the burn. It wasn't enough. He needed something stronger, something with an edge that would burn deep and not just his mouth and throat. Ezra would have it, what he needed, something fine and expensive, no doubt, but what he needed. If Nathan could give him drugs…

He was half-way to Ezra's bar when he stopped, barely remembering having walked this far. He'd promised Buck. He'd promised himself, too, but those promises were easier to break. He'd promised himself he'd never fall in love again. Never care so much for someone that the loss of them would bring him to this point, where the bottle was better than trying to deal.

A taste wouldn't be enough. It never was. A shot wouldn't be much better, because he'd want more.

Something he found to be less of a problem when he was with Vin, or even with Buck. Vin liked his beers, liked his tequila, didn't mind sharing a glass of whiskey while they sat on the back deck watching the sun set. And it was enough, a glass then, a beer after work. Not a crutch, not an escape, just a drink. A ritual more than a requirement.

The mug was still in his hand and he took a sip, closing his eyes, willing that heat to be the one he craved. Opened his eyes again to see a framed photo Ezra had on his wall. Chris had seen them before. A few of Maude at various points around the world. Even one with Ezra and Maude together, in which Ezra looked almost happy, or at least not as guarded as he usually was with his mother. Another of Ezra and some smiling-faced young woman, Maude there too, other people…it almost looked like a family gathering of sorts.

One for the team, from the first summer Vin had joined them. Ezra had only been with them for about six months then, and while friendly, still distant as he felt his way in and around the intricate weaving of personalities and expectations of his new teammates. He'd gone out a few times after a work day, but rarely to any of the bigger weekend gatherings.

Until the summer picnic. Buck and Vin and JD had come out to help him paint, fix up the ranch a bit. Vin doing the same thing Ezra had done, trying to find his way -- but he'd been easier about it. Not as suspicious. Chris suspected that half the reason Ezra had come was to get to spend a little more time around Vin, and maybe not just as another member of the team.

Most likely not. It was there, between them, between all of them -- but Chris and Ezra had an agreement of sorts.

What would he be doing now if it had been Ezra and Vin, if Vin had not become the filler in the empty part of his life? So close, too many times, to having that hole opened again. Would he be doing things differently if Vin weren't his lover, his best friend, the man he'd just committed a huge part of his life to just a few days ago? Would Ezra be handling this any better than he was? Was he?

Chris didn't know. He knew Ezra's rage had matched his own, perfectly. Had maybe opened the door for them to work better together than they usually did. They too often clashed over points of procedure. Ezra liked pushing the limits, and Chris liked snapping the reins to hold him back.

If Buck were his measure of how well he was holding his grief in check, than Ezra could the milestone of how well he maintaining his control and he headed toward the bedrooms. Ezra's door was open, the man himself not in his room. He looked back toward the living room.

It was chilly, although the bedroom had been warm and it didn't take Chris long to realize that the door to the balcony was cracked a little, the sheer drapes fluttering lightly. He pulled on his jeans and his t-shirt, not quite ready to be fully dressed but not willing to face the cold without some protection.

Ezra was cozy enough, settled into a padded deck chair of dark green metallic iron, wearing a quilted robe in subdued in dark grey and blue, wearing flannel and slippers and his coffee and breakfast set beside him. He wasn't wearing the sling, but his injured arm rested on the table for support and he was handling his cup gingerly as he reached across his body to lift it to his lips.

And he was quietly, calmly composed. Well, more or less given the hour.

"You're gonna' ruin your rep, getting up this early," Chris said, easing down into the chair opposite, glancing out at the view Ezra's not so cheap housing offered. Buildings and trees mostly, but the mountains were beyond, already looking a little hazy as the dew rose and the cold air slipped underneath, washing and mixing Denver's atmosphere until it would settle again into the light filtering of smog, later in the morning.

"I trust to your discretion in all things of importance, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said, with a hint of a smile. "How'd you sleep?"

"Like the…like a log," Chris amended, pushing the word and thought as far away from him as possible. "You?"

"I'm of a mind that our estimable Mr. Jackson slipped me a mickey," he said, setting his cup down and flexing the fingers of his fingers.

"I wondered…" Chris agreed and took a sip of his own coffee to ward off a chill. "Kind of cold out here."

"Bracing, I think is the word." Ezra lifted his head as if tracking something. "But a good night's sleep can sharpen the mind…this was very well planned."

It only took Chris a second to register the change in topic. "Yeah, it was."

"But opportunistic," Ezra said quietly, fingering his cup, before looking at Chris. "Less than a week between the sudden appealing offer to sell handguns and the actual meet."

Chris nodded, not entirely following Ezra's thoughts but willing to go with it. Who knew the man was this sharp in the morning? "We're getting nothing from Madden. He got a call from someone to make a call."

"None of whom have the resources to pull off this kind of set up in so little time."

"Could have been in the works for months, Ezra."

Ezra shook his head. "I don't think so. We have two theories: One that it was some part of the radical church group that was out for Vin, maybe in retribution for Hollinger. Possible, but the more I think of it, not plausible."

"Why not?" Chris asked, prodding Ezra, but remembering Josiah's words; that this was different.

"Because while our unknown extremists may might have access to both the building and the explosives, don't you think it a bit odd that they would also have access to an informant of *mine* who is known more for his addiction to drugs than to his ins with even the most public of extreme groups?" Ezra asked. "Unless they were observing me and my connections for a very long time - which means that whoever pulled Madden into the loop to get us to that meet, knew something about how we work and that, Mr. Larabee, isn't something that made the nightly news prior to last week."

It had occurred to Chris, along with anxious ideas about leaks in the bureau, about coincidence and its unlikelihood. "There was a church in the building."

"I know. A storefront church, with a printing business on the side to help them make the rent in a decidedly economically depressed area of the city. Hardly an affluent mega-church as the other targets have been."

That made sense, laid out like that, and Chris realized, with an annoyed shake of his head that they'd all been too tired to see it. "Angling for Josiah's job, Ez?"

A dry chuckle escaped his host. "Hardly. Makes my head hurt, but we're at those two options. It is either related to Hollinger -- which put Vin and us in the public eye -- or it's not. And if it's not then someone got to us through Madden, and we need to find out who got to whoever got to Madden."

"That's still a long list," Chris said.

"It's long, but even among those Madden regularly runs for, there are players and then there are *players*. Pretty Jack Hooper is certainly flamboyant enough to pull this off, but he's not really a thinker. He's more of the drive by shooting kind of grudge settler," Ezra said. "We may want to look into, not those contacts of Madden we know are working the area, but who they owe favors to. And I need to check with the other teams to see who is moving product."

He shifted then, quickly hiding a wince as he put pressure on the injured arm to push himself to his feet. Chris rose with him. "It's still a lot of ground to cover, Ez," he said.

Ezra looked serious. "I know. But moving in the right direction may make all the difference."

Chris thought about it fingering his cup. Covering only one angle -- even if another team still pursued the church angle -- was a risk. Maybe a costly risk. Right now, though, they were scattered, covering too many bases, trying desperately not to miss a connection. "You feel up to talking to Madden today? You may get more out of him that Dave's team will."

"I'd most assuredly like to talk to Mr. Madden," Ezra said with a smile that was at once both charming and wolfish. There was a glint in his eye that Chris knew was anger, maybe even rage. Ezra didn't like being taken for a fool unless he planned it that way.

"I'll set it up," Chris agreed and followed Ezra inside. A borrowed shirt and a couple of phone calls later and Nathan was on his way. "Go for Madden. I'm gonna have Nathan drop me at the hospital. I'll get a cab back."

"Not entirely convinced?" Ezra asked, emerging looking polished and put together and deliberately using his arm without letting a single flinch mar his features. Chris had to wonder how many painkillers *that* took.

"Covering our bases. Josiah picked up something in the threats to Vin. I'm hoping he's clearer on what they were."

Ezra nodded and shrugged into his suit jacket. "And then?"

"Then I'm turning Nathan loose on the explosives forensics -- they had to come from somewhere. Get me something or someone to pin it to, Ez."

"I will do my best."

And that would be good enough, Chris prayed.

The hospital was quiet at this time in the morning. Chris never understood why or how most disasters happened later in the day and into evening. Maybe he should make it a point to schedule his teams ops early in the mornings -- might cut down on their injury rate if nothing else.

The orthopedic wing was equally as quiet, nursing shift having just changed, breakfast past being served, the carpeted hallways muffling the sounds of the few patients who were up and about on canes or walkers or crutches.

He shouldn't have been surprised to see Buck, but he was. The hospital was pretty much on the way to the office for him and JD, and it would be like Buck to do his own checking on Josiah. JD as well. Something about the two older men went a long way toward steadying JD down, to channeling the energy the youngest of their team seemed to have in disproportionate amounts. He didn't see JD immediately, but he did see the local boy in blue, keeping an eye on Josiah's door from a chair next to the nurse's station, and Buck was there, in the hall, talking to the blonde physical therapist from the day before. She had her head down slightly, Buck leaning against the wall in what might be an intimate position, only Chris knew him well enough to recognize the subtle difference between Buck in full out flirt mode and when he was feeling protective. As Chris approached, Michelle lifted her face and Buck looked as well.

Chris didn't stop walking but there was a definite tightening in his gut. Michelle's very pretty face was looking a little distorted, a little swollen and entirely too made-up if he recalled correctly from the day before. The make up went some distance to obscuring the red marks going dark on her face. Someone had hit her, and Chris wasn't likely to buy a car door as the culprit. Three points of more vivid red under the spreading of base and powder spoke more of a fist than an accident.

Closer now, he did hesitate. Not reluctant to intrude, but Michelle's eyes met his, the blue bright enough to make him think she wore colored contacts. Blue intense enough to remind him nothing less dangerous than a wolf, or some other predator rather than skies or water or sapphires. That gaze unwavering enough for just a moment, for Chris to actually entertain the idea that maybe that fist hadn't been entirely and act of domestic violence, even as he flinched from the thought of transposing victim to aggressor. Then the gaze dropped, quickly, almost deliberately fast.

"JD's in with Josiah," Buck said, in an entirely suggestive voice, indicating Chris should leave them for a minute.

"I should go," Michelle said, once more demure and even in that short phrase in the brilliant and grateful smile she turned on Buck, looking once more kind of small and fragile in nature if not actually physical. So much a change that Chris wondered if he'd imagined the two seconds of stark calculation he'd seen in her eyes. Could have been challenging. Could have been rightfully wary, if getting slapped around was normal for her.

"How's he doing?" Chris asked her, almost willing her to stay a few moments longer to confirm or refute his impression.

"Oh, much better. He was grumbling like a bear when I went in to adjust his traction," she said on a chuckle that wasn't forced, eyes alight with humor and satisfaction that wasn't feigned. "Very chatty -- well, maybe he was just trying to be polite."

"Josiah?" Buck said, smiling down at her. "He was just being cross 'cause he can't get up and chase you around the nurse's station."

Michelle's laughter was a bright peal of bells in the otherwise quiet hallway. Her hand came up to rest lightly on Buck's chest. There were bruises on her wrist too, mostly hidden by her jacket, but there when she lifted her arm, the sleeve pulled back. "I do have other patients to see," she said. "I'll be back later. Thanks, Buck," she said and pushed up on toes to lay a light kiss on his cheek. "You watch that knee and arm now. I wouldn't want to have to put you through my torture masquerading as therapy."

"Bring it on, darlin'," Buck said, catching her hand briefly. He looked happy, pouring on the charm, reassuring her in his own way that whatever had happened, she hadn't deserved it. "And you remember what I said."

"I will," she said, glanced at Chris and then moved away from the protection of Buck's body. "Agent Larabee," she said by way of greeting and Chris didn't miss the coolness there. Maybe he reminded her of someone.

Buck watched her go appreciatively, that singular expression of both admiration/lust and concern/anger playing over his face. God help her boyfriend or husband or whoever it was that hit her if Buck ever met him.

"Problem?" Chris asked as she disappeared into another patient's room.

Buck shrugged. "She say's no. She's done with him. The boyfriend…" he scowled, teeth raking across his lower lip.

"She gonna call you?" Chris asked, pushing on Josiah's door. Not so much teasing, but that was there too.

"She might, but I don't know. She's a contract therapist…goes where her agency sends her. She's thinking about another state. Says the men are nicer in Oklahoma." He grinned. "I could show her there are nice men in Denver too."

"Yeah, you could," Chris said torn between his affection for Buck and the minor irritation a Buck always on the prowl could be. But Buck's white knight duty was done for the day and he was all business by the time they got into the room.

"How's Ezra?"

"Talking to Madden. Josiah, JD…" Chris greeted his men, surveying Josiah critically, but despite the pretty livid bruising, Josiah looked better. His eyes didn't have the full-on glaze of drugs, and he was managing the cup of coffee with no shakes, no hesitations. JD looked like he could use a few more hours of sleep -- he'd had less than any of them -- but he was still twitchy as a cat, determined look on his unshaven face that made him look both older and more like a junkie.

It could have been ridiculous; briefing his men while Josiah had both legs stretched out, raised a bit by cushions, traction ropes dangling off the bed with their constant weight. Chris stood between them, watching the play of reaction across Josiah's face as he filled them in on Ezra's theories, Buck and JD flanking the injured man on either side of the bed.

"Ezra's right about the church in the building; it doesn't fit the profile. Not rich enough, unless it was fronting for some other, larger church. I haven't had a chance to look into that," Josiah said, big hands spread out helplessly. "Get me a laptop and access and I can do some hunting."

The request was just short of begging and Chris nodded, glancing at JD. "Get the request together when we get to the office and I'll get Travis out of bed to authorize it if I have to. Don't push, though 'siah."

"I've got nothing but time on my hands and a whole lot of worry, Chris," Josiah said, mouth tense, his own eyes as intense as Chris had imagined Michelle's to be. Being laid up and out of touch was far harder on Josiah than any pain.

He reached for the spiral notebook on the adjustable table. "I've got notes and thoughts. Nights are long…you want these or wait until I can type them up?"

"Give us the high points," Chris said. JD had his compact out though, fingers flying over the tiny keyboard for bullet points. It took Josiah longer to summarize, deciphering his own drug-tinged scrawl, but verbal summaries were better from Josiah and Chris listened, catalogued, marked.

It was still all hunches. The threats, the ones Josiah had been working on were different, although the difference was marginal at best. Someone trying to sound like Hollinger, but not quite making it, or getting caught up. If that held up, Ezra was closer to right, but they were not really any closer to who.

By the time they left, Josiah looked ready to take advantage of the morphine pump he'd avoided using. Chris set it in his hand as he left. "It'll be a few hours before I can get you that link. Grab the rest," he ordered and followed Buck and JD out.

JD was driving Buck's big truck, more careful than he ever was in his own vehicle, and the ride quiet. Buck took off to once more go over the video tapes and pictures and JD didn't stop hovering at Chris' heel until he had the authorization to get Josiah a laptop. Travis, not surprisingly, was in the office. In fact, the garage was pretty damn full for a Sunday. There was no receptionist, but he noticed a couple of the transcriptionists were in, the records staff looked to be on a full shift.

Travis and McCall probably hadn't even had to make it mandatory -- there was an agent missing and everyone at the ATF knew, prayed, hoped, that if it were them -- this would be the level of effort mounted to find them.

Authorization in hand, JD took off to get equipment for Josiah and set it up then checking in with the comms team and Chris forced himself to sit down and summarize what they had in something that resembled a report.

Forty-five minutes later he was tracking down Ezra, too aware that the man was compromising his cover badly in this. Madden would go down for possession, if nothing else, the DEA just waiting for their shot at him. But even in the months it might take for him to be tried outside of being held as a material witness, he could talk, probably would talk, in jail, in prison, opening yet another door for retaliation -- against Ezra this time.

Almost without exception, they'd all done it. Being one of the best teams in the ATF had its price, and watching Ezra work on Madden from behind the two-way, Chris had to wonder, yet again, how much of it was worth it. He'd managed to push his anxiety about Vin back somewhat but only by acknowledging that where ever his partner was, he couldn't help him there. The only thing he could do was find him. Separating the personal from the professional was harder, but he could be angry and focused when it was a team member he was hunting for. Thinking of everything else Vin was to him just pushed him back to the despair and grief he couldn't afford to give rein to.

And if that didn't convince him irrevocably that he was and could be a cold-hearted bastard of a man, nothing would.

He couldn't tell, coming into the middle of it as he did, if Ezra had made much progress. Some of it seemed to be no more than casual conversation, but Madden was watching Ezra with a wariness that didn't extend to the other agent in the room. He was strung out although a bit less so than he'd been when they picked him up. The lank shock of hair riding the middle of his scalp needed a wash, he needed a shave and the sodas and cigarettes he was plowing through guaranteed frequent shuffles to the bathroom, and a cough that punctuated nearly every other sentence.

The phone in the observation room chirped and the recording agent answered, passing it off to Chris.

"Need another set of eyes, Chris." Buck, who sounded both anxious and hopeful.

"Be there in two," Chris promised and let himself out. Maybe they'd get a break before Ezra could break Madden.

The AV lab was quiet, agents in headphones checking tapes, marking films. Chris found Buck in one of the darkened carrels, a technician beside him trying to refine a photo with a computer program.

"What did you find?" he asked and Buck chewed on his mustache for a moment.

He used his own controls on the viewer, backing it up and resetting it to advance the film a frame at the time. It was excruciatingly slow. "Just look. See if anything's familiar," Buck said, holding back from actually suggesting anything. He pushed his chair back, snagging another for Chris to use and wincing as his leg pulled.

Chris studied him for a minute, glancing at Buck's leg like he could actually see the wound or could tell if it was inflamed. Buck should be off his feet.

And if he said anything, Buck would only point out that he was sitting on his ass and there was nothing wrong with his eyes.

Chris turned his attention to the screen view.

He recognized the leasing agent at least. The cameras were actually set behind his desk, so as to pick up people entering the office. But he turned to pull files and Chris caught sight of his face. He shifted his gaze.

Two men, dressed in casual business suits. One was on the burly side, tie a little loose. Conservatively cut hair was either a light brown or some hint of red. The complexion was ruddy, hands large and blunt fingered as he looked over the files the agent presented at the counter. His companion was dark haired, neat beard and mustache trimmed, looking a bit more polished but standing to one side as his shorter companion went over papers. The second man kept his sunglasses on, his posture relaxed.

Chris studied their faces. The frame by frame giving him the impression of single camera clicks. He shook his head.

"Run it a little faster, Carol," Buck said and the replay started. Chris glanced at Buck only briefly but Buck wasn't giving him any clue as to what he saw. What he wanted Chris to see. This time Chris ignored the agent, ignored the brunet, concentrating on the red head, looking for that part of his mind where perps from a hundred busts, a thousand investigations over the years might provide a clue. At the end of the tape segment he'd seen nothing but this time he prompted Carol to rerun it, focusing on the second man. There was nothing. Nothing really, but still…God, right on the edge of his brain…

"The guy with the beard."

"Yes!" Buck hissed out softly, leaning forward and tapped out a command. "I swear I've seen him but I can't place him." The best shots of the frame by frame had been isolated, blown up, Carol adjusting for light and angle, trying to sharpen the image. She pulled two, on full front, one profile.

"The profile caught me but I just can't put a finger on it. We've done this guy - sometime. And not so long ago," Buck said.

"What's the leasing agent say?"

"They came in on Tuesday, asking about the property -- yeah that one, along with a half dozen others in the week before," Buck said, checking a typed transcript of the interview. "Identified themselves as Taylor and Huffman. Agent took them over, stayed with them, showed them the available space on the second and third floor, took them through the loading docks…regular showing, he said. Never left them," Buck said. "I've studied all of them. This is the first I've gotten a ping from, but damned if I know why."

"I'm going to run it through a program to alter hair color and remove the beard but the glasses…" Carol said. "Angle and distortion. I'm not sure it's going to help much."

They waited, watched, Carol removing the beard and mustache first to present the man as clean shaven. Buck made a low grumbling sound in his throat, still obviously fighting for the connection.

"Okay," Carol said, getting ready to adjust the hair color, but she paused to glance at Buck. "Take a break, Wilmington. Really. Walk away and find something else to do for awhile and clear your brain. I'll send them up when I'm done and try for some different eye sets to try for something more full featured."

"I can wait."

Chris stood up and patted his shoulder. "Not the point. Come on. Let's both take a break."

"I'm telling you, Chris, we identify this guy and we might have something," Buck said, flatly. "Just give it a few. It's the closest damn thing we've had to a break--"

"Buck. I'm not denying it. I'm saying you need to take a break. Clear your head. You're trying too hard," Chris said.

Buck started to protest again, eyebrows drawn together, mouth as tense as the hand he gripped the back of Carol's chair with. She was watching him too, compassion and some pity on her face. "It's gonna take me awhile, Buck. Promise. You'll have them as soon as I'm done," she said.

Buck took a breath and dropped his head, the tension flowing off him like the sudden release of a dam. "Yeah. Okay…thanks, darlin'," he said and got his feet under him, almost staggering when he stood and Chris took his arm. He steadied out, but his first steps illustrated the fact that he'd been sitting too long, ribs and leg stiffening up on him.

"Get Nathan to take a look at that leg," Chris said quietly as they headed for the elevators. "Need you on your feet, stud," he added forestalling yet another protest, Buck's stormy gaze signifying that nothing short of broken bones was keeping him out of this. Score yet another victim for the anger-as-motivator team.

"It's just stiff. I looked at it this morning. JD put that …glop on it."

Chris only nodded, leaning against one wall of the elevator while the doors closed. "Just a little break. I'm thinking you're right, but there's not enough there for me to know anything but that he looks familiar. We can check in with Nathan, see what Ezra has, distract ourselves, then get back at it."

"Yeah…I hate this part."

"Investigative shit always seems---"

Buck cut him off. "Not the research. The waiting…" the doors pinged and Buck limped toward their offices. JD wasn't there, nor Ezra, but Nathan was and there was a definite air of excitement on his dark face. Chris felt the energy sizzle through him and Buck as well.

"You got something?"

"Forensics did. Three candidates for the explosives in Denver. They are still trying for a batch id but…" he held up the paper. "Webster's Gravel and Grading, LLC." Nathan had cleared off his desk nearly entirely, the computer sitting precariously on the edge of it. He had the forensic reports up on the computer as well as a hard copy and copies of the floorplans of the building.

Chris felt a shudder run though him, icy and not necessarily pleasant. "Vin pegged that one."

Nathan nodded, his smile fading. "He did. Small company. Very busy and not necessarily laying driveways. DEA bellied up some intel. Webster's operates multi-state, but on the books they are pretty small. We're trying to muscle them for current contracts, audit their stock. Travis is rustling a judge out of bed to get a warrant. Mostly private stuff, a couple of big realty contracts…"

"The leasing agent?" Buck asked and Nathan shook his head.

"Not as far as I know. But what the DEA has…seems Webster's works under a rider administered by a company called La Nueva Manera, Nueva Manera handles interstate shipping from Denver to Tulsa to the Mexican border and is tied, not surprisingly, to Estevan Torvado."

"Who is one of Eric Madden's prime clients," Chris said. "Ezra know this?"

"He's on his way up, said he thought that was the link. Only Madden swears that it wasn't Torvado that called him, only the key to take the tip on the handguns. Wasn't Torvado's deal."

"And Estevan Torvado is…where?" Chris asked.

Nathan bit his lip, looking less excited but just as determined. "DEA doesn't know. They've been tracking him, sure he's pulling drugs across the border and using the trucking company for transport."

"He's gone to ground," Ezra said joining them. Chris hadn't even heard the elevators. Ezra looked paler, the beginnings of dark circles forming under his eyes from fatigue and stress. "I gave Eric a break, made some calls. Torvado's been 'unavailable' since earlier in the week. There's more though…" he settled on the edge of the desk, looking none too happy. "We've been so concentrating on the church bombings, I've been out of the loop…but something big is going down or was. Madden says there are buyers coming in, or were. Nervous now because of the bombing -- this latest one, not the church bombing. Buyers who aren't your piss poor street runners looking to settle gang uprisings."

"How big?" Chris asked, glad when Buck settled against the opposite desk.

"Big enough that small operators like Torvado need not apply. But he's more into the drugs -- the guns are a hobby. Still he's not to be found. And Torvado could have made Vin and by association to me if he were watching the news and his memory is that good. The Juarez case…Torvado was my one of my ins and Vin drove for me at a minor meeting to set his credentials." Ezra said.

Chris flushed, turned away for a moment and chewed on it. Even among themselves, they danced lightly around the Juarez case, which had gone so horribly badly wrong in so many ways. Vin at the center of it and left with the scars to remind Chris more often than they actually reminded Vin. Of course, Chris wasn't entirely sure how much Vin did remember. It had taken months for Vin to settle the horror of it enough to be able to sleep at night.

Chris still woke up occasionally.

When he turned back, his features were carefully schooled. "If Torvado put the pieces together, I'd think he'd be after you."

Ezra nodded, a frown marring his face that had little to do with pain. "I know. And I was a target, or we were, but there's no reason for Torvado to take Vin rather than just kill him. And despite his connections with Nueva Manera, this isn't his style any more than it's Hooper's. Torvado usually isn't one to play this big. He keeps his business just small enough to keep him comfortable but not big enough to encourage a turf war."

"But that don't mean somebody didn't use Torvado to get their goals met," Nathan said. "This job was demolition, pure and simple. But it wasn't total, or meant to be," he said and slid the explosive forensics report across the desk to Chris. "Those charges were set high, meant to collapse the upper two floors rather than level the building -- and that took some doing. Somebody who was really good -- and tough to do well."

"Why would they care?" Chris asked. "I mean what was on the top two floors -- which were supposed to be empty and available for lease -- that could have wanted to destroy, but leave the lower floors intact?"

Nathan shook his head, studying the blue prints, then flipping them, leaning forward and Chris leaned with him. "What?"

One long finger traced a marked corridor on the ground floor, ending in an open space. Nathan checked the blue print again. "Wait…wait a second," he said and pulled a plan from the bottom of the pile. Laying it end to end more or less, across his desk and Buck's. "Common docks…," he said. "That's how they got Vin out. Not from the building he was on, but the one next to it. The building we were using is attached to the warehouse space south of it. Our target is mostly office space, the other is for storage. The loading dock is there."

"Where the fucking van was," Buck said in disgust. "We need to see if they've found it yet…commercial lease vehicle, wasn't it?"

"Yeah. But not Webster's. Some other fleet lease," Chris said. "Which doesn't mean there isn't a connection. Webster's is small -- I doubt they maintain their own fleet. Commercial landscaping but not…that big."

"That's why they set the explosives like they did…they need to get Vin down to ground floor and then across the access tunnel to where the actual loading dock is. They were ballsy as hell," Nathan breathed. "They could have been moving him and set the explosive off while they were still inside. Even if someone saw them leave with Vin, they'd have thought he was someone injured in the blast…"

Chris could see his own shock echoed on the other men's faces. Risky enough to target federal agents, riskier still to be pulling off this kind of thing with the level of finesse and danger involved. And in so little time. Someone had to have called in some heavy favors -- or had a lot of influence.

"We are really, really not looking for anyone local…" Ezra said softly. "This is someone used to operating on a far larger scale than our local criminal element. Someone who is used to planning operations with an amazing amount of attention to detail."

"We've had a few of those over the years," Nathan said. "But damn few. Narrows the field."

The printer sounded off and Nathan turned to get it, brows lowered as the copies of the pictures started filling the tray. He pulled the first few, glancing over them and Buck held out his hand, Ezra crowding in closer to look.

Chris went to his office to use the phone, watching Buck and Ezra as they went through the modified pictures. He found Travis, updating him on what the team had discovered, getting reassured that there was, indeed, a records warrant being processed to search through the contracts at Webster's Gravel and Grading even as they were talking.

"Hold on, Orrin," Chris said, watching Buck hobble across the floor, not even bothering to open the office door, just pressing a photo to the glass beside it.

Chris stared, then moved to get closer, reaching out to almost touch the picture, mind churning. He absolutely knew that face, for all that his contact the first time had been brief -- only seeing him as they were taking Vin to an ambulance. He'd met him before too, but had been unconscious. Buck had seen him. Vin too. And Ezra definitely knew the man.

"Chris?" AD Travis spoke in his ear and Chris swallowed.

"I'm here. We think we know who…Hartman. Anthony Hartman. Chen Juarez's right hand man."

Travis swore softly. "You're sure? I thought he was out of the country after the mine explosion last year."

"Apparently not," Chris said and found his gut tightening, the shock wearing thin and he nodded to Buck. "Get me something, Orrin. He's tried for us before and failed. This second time may be enough to really make him lose it."

"I'm sending agents over now. McCall will have tactical team on standby, if he doesn't already. Stay close, Chris."

Chris agreed and hung up, opening the door slowly. "Get hold of JD, Buck. See if ComSat has anything. Ezra, Nathan, I don't care if you have to blow a dozen other operations -- you find out what and who and where this big deal is going down. Buck…"

"Pulling the files now. If he's walking in Juarez's footsteps, there's a half dozen places around Denver Juarez used for business," Buck said coolly, face set and a grim smile on his face, glad to have something to work with. Off the top of his head, Chris could name half of them. That fucking big ass estate that as far as he knew was still on the market. A couple of warehouses in the north of Denver that still ran business attached to Juarez's holdings. They'd need a dozen teams to cover them all, but they'd do it. Orrin would and Chris would make sure of it.

They moved and Chris stared at the picture again. Hartman was a ruthless bastard but they hadn't had enough to pin on him to do more than get him a slap on the wrist when Juarez died. Vin had ID'd him at the mine in the op last year. Chris' thigh twinged in memory. Hartman had come damn close to permanently ending Chris' career…first with a bullet and then with an explosion.

To return to the U.S., to Denver, probably meant that the left over cache at the mine was coming up for sale. Hundreds of automatic and semi-automatic weapons had been cut lose before the Feds moved in and Hartman had had to wait to sell them. Probably hoped to do it all in one sale and the money involved would be enough to get him back in the country for it.

It made sense, all of it. Hartman probably knew all along what his former boss had been doing with the young men lured to the huge estate. May have even had a hand in disposing of the bodies -- might have been ready to add Vin's to the pile cached up in the mountains.

So, now they knew who…but where…

Chris studied the map of greater Denver, scowling at it. Warehouses were north, stringing along above and along the river. The Estate was northwest, remote enough and damn near unapproachable. That had been the problem the last time. His eyes narrowed, the rage he'd been keeping carefully in check bubbling up. "Where are you, you bastard?"

##  ~Chapter Thirteen~

** Sunday, 4:55 pm - Denver Memorial, orthopedic wing  
**  
Snagging an apple off one of the trays on the dietary cart, Michelle checked the nurse's station and saw no one. The uniformed guard was there, looking a little fidgety. Served him right the way he'd been chatting up the nurse techs over endless cups of coffee. She pushed her cart forward, the hot water and heavy packs sloshing inside.

She didn't hide her amusement from him. "Your relief coming soon?" she asked, glancing down at where he was trying desperately not to twitch and grip his penis to halt the need to pee. He flushed.

"At five."

She nodded and glanced at the closed door. "I'm going in to check if you want to duck into the bathroom. Promise to scream if anyone not on staff comes in -- you could use the bathroom in there," she tossed her head.

"Sposed to watch from outside…"

She shrugged and headed into Sanchez's room. He was sleeping still, the laptop delivered earlier resting on his stomach. She left the hall door open and stepped into the bathroom to wash her hands.

She was not surprised to see the young officer at the open door, looking sheepish. "I won't tell," she promised and he ducked his head, sliding past her and already unzipping his pants.

He'd leave in a minute and she stared at the closed door. She could do what she needed to without him knowing, without anyone knowing. She'd get out clean and no one would know or even connect her to what happened. Maybe. Probably. She was that good. She knew it even if Tony didn't appreciate the fact.

Timing. Timing. One potato, two potato.

She opened the bathroom door, stepped in, and closed it behind her.

The cop jerked, exposed dick still in his hand. "Uh, ma'am…not quite finished."

"So I see…nice…" she said flicking her eyes down, smile curving her lips. He flushed more. It was adorable. "You get off …at five?" she asked, tongue moistening her lips and eyes fixed on his cock. Predictably, he got a little firmer.

"Uh…yeah…there's…Oh, Jesus…" he swallowed and then seemed to collect himself. "I'm done," he said, and flushed the toilet.

"Yeah? You sure?" she said, over the noise, one hand reaching out for the exposed, flushed skin.

"Ma'am!"

He reached for her wrist, and the heavy pack came around and up. Five pounds of wet sand and heat caught him on the jaw, knocked him against the counter. The weight came down again on his back, Michelle driving her knee up into his exposed groin, his cry echoing in the small room. The bag was doubled and she slung it down hard on the back of his neck, driving him to the floor. Blood smeared on the counter when his face hit it, drops of it falling with him to the floor.

She pulled the lever on the toilet again, the roar like a dam breaking in the small tiled room.

He was partly conscious still when she flipped him to his back, straddled him, and pressed the heavy pack to his belly. She slid his gun free, pressed it into the seam between the sections of sand, his eyes widening in awareness. She shoved a washcloth in his open mouth and pulled the trigger.

He jerked when she fired, the sound more pop than bang. Pain flooded his face, and apparently he hadn't finished peeing after all.

She rose up smoothly and wiped the gun off with the gag from his mouth, sliding both into her pocket, then lifted the hot pack up, fingering the small round hole. Another washcloth kept the wet sand from spilling out and she glanced at herself in the mirror. She was a little flushed, but it would pass.

She backed out, settling the hot pack back into the tank, washcloth and all, and checked her patient. He was stirring, but not yet awake.

The laptop was open, just waiting there. It took only a few seconds; Michelle glanced at her patient, not surprised when the clicking of keys disturbed him more that the flushing of the toilet. She finished, closed the laptop partially and set it on the table.

"Mr. Sanchez?" she said, letting him wake up more gradually and he blinked at her, recognized her. "Just checking your traction," she said and adjusted the weight a little, helping him sit up with the assistance of the traction bar. "Need anything? I'm about to go off shift."

He rubbed a hand over his face, testing the scruffiness of his beard and scratched. "Short of getting out of here…" he said, eyeing the series of ropes and weights. "Guess not." He looked around and spotted the laptop and Michelle touched it.

"Need this? It looked like it would fall."

"No...no…not this second. What time is it?"

"Just before five," she said. "Your dinner should be here soon." She poured him a fresh cup of water, then checked the pitcher. "Let me get you some more water," she offered and got a grateful smile as she went into the bathroom, careful to avoid the spreading blood on the floor.

"If that's all," she said returning the pitcher to the bedside table. "It's been a pleasure knowing you, Agent Sanchez."

He looked at her, one eyebrows raised. "That sounds like a real good-bye."

"I'm a contract therapist. Contract's up, or close enough," she said with a grin. "Onto bigger, better things. You be sure and take care of yourself -- don't undo all my good work."

He chuckled at that. "I'll do my best. Thank you for your care."

"That's why they pay me the big bucks, Josiah. Good at what I do. Love what I do. Like you and your friends."

He nodded but his expression altered, the grey eyes somber. "Sometimes better than others…"

"Sometimes. They'll find him, Agent Sanchez."

"You sound sure of that."

"I am. I have faith. Don't lose yours…" She gave his hand a little squeeze. "See you."

She left him then, pushing her cart outside and smiled again, closing the door. The apple waited for her, and she took a healthy bite as the elevator doors opened and she pushed it inside and let it close on the cart, sending it to the basement where the physical therapy gym was. She took the stairs, hitting the fire alarm on her way out the door.

The alarms shrieked and echoed in the metal stairway and she practically danced down the stairs, finishing her apple as she hit the bottom. The sound shut off as the door closed but she could hear it still, in her ears, ringing through the building as she stripped off her lab coat with the gun and her hospital badge, bundling them up under her arm as she headed for the parking lot. People were running now, not quite panicked, but alarmed.

She heard the sirens start up before she got in her car.

Sunday, 5:45 pm - Denver Memorial, orthopedic wing

Reassurances from Travis did nothing for Chris, his heart not leaving his throat until he hit the third floor, shoving his ID in the face of anyone who got in his way. There was a sense of low-level panic on the floor, palpable as the mingled scents of urine, blood, alcohol and fear: the latter sweat-tinged and sharp. There were uniforms everywhere: doctors, nurses, hospital security, a couple of firefighters including the fire chief, all moving or not moving in various stages of shock and confusion.

Chris stopped suddenly enough for Buck to grip his shoulder to steady himself, a grunt in Chris' ear as they stopped outside of Josiah's room. Nathan didn't make any pretense of politeness and shoved past both of them, a soft curse that the cause of was revealed only as Chris finally pushed forward as well.

They hadn't moved Josiah yet, although there was a gurney in the room, waiting for the path to be cleared, for the photographers and forensics people to finish up, and maybe housekeeping to come in and clean up rather than run the gurney wheels through the blood already marking the floor. There was a lot of it.

Some brave nurse was with Josiah now, Nathan showing her a deference he hadn't exhibited to the more ranking officials in the hall. Josiah was pale but steady, even finding a grim and weary smile for Chris and Buck when they finally made it all the way into the room. The traction was off, but it was temporary -- long enough to get Josiah to another room.

The surgeons weren't sure the cop would make it. Single gut shot, torn his insides apart and he'd lost a lot of blood: most of it spread all over the bathroom floor.

"I didn't hear a damn thing," Josiah was muttering, eyeing the morphine pump like it was the source of all evil in the world.

Maybe it was. For certain if Josiah had been the target, he'd have been dead now and they'd be visiting him in the morgue.

"Heard the fire alarm, people moving and checking. Wasn't until a nurse came in here and started screaming that I knew anything. You'd have thought I'd have heard the shot...I heard Michelle..."

"She was here?"

"Just before. Adjusted these damn ropes, got me some water...said her good-byes."

Chris snapped his gaze to Josiah's face, not misreading the tone of the older man's voice.

"Had to have been her," Josiah said. "There wasn't anyone else here."

"You were out, though, Josiah," Buck said.

"Not then, not when she was here," Josiah said, color flushing his face. "She went in to get me water, for Christ's sake! You think she just missed that boy bleeding to death on the floor?"

"But why?" Nathan said, glancing up and Chris looked back as well, seeing Travis enter the room along with a doctor who was resolutely not looking at the bathroom floor. Chris didn't blame him. Blood and guts was part of the everyday life of hospital staff., But being part of the crime scene when the shooting was happening…that was different and frightening.

"She's been in and out of here all weekend, and if she wanted Josiah or Ezra for that matter...she had the opportunity."

"Obviously not her reason for being here," Travis said. "We're checking her out. And we're moving you, Sanchez. Boys, step out in the hall with me and let's get Agent Sanchez someplace a little more secure and less gruesome." Travis stepped back, brooking no argument. Nathan picked up the laptop, freeing the cable and phone line, but he was the last to leave, eyeing the orderlies with a distrust he'd didn't usually display. It was almost enough to make the two techs flinch.

Chris understood the feeling, eyeing every member of the staff with the same suspicion.

And yet, Josiah wasn't dead. He wasn't anything more than shook up. Covering his face with his hands briefly, Chris let his back hit the wall outside Josiah's room, the movement as much figurative as literal. What the hell were they up against? Someone either wanted them dead or they didn't. The setting of the bombs made more sense than this did. Josiah could be dead by any means, and without the alarms it might have been awhile before anyone noticed. Without the assault on the cop, they'd have never suspected Michelle at all.

"What the fuck is going on?" he hissed softly.

"I don't know..." Travis said, not taking the question as rhetorical, watching as Josiah was wheeled out of his room and down the hall. The four of them fell in behind. "Her name is Michelle Spencer. She's a contract therapist. We'll get in touch with her agency, talk to the director of therapy. Denver PD is after this one for themselves. It's marginally possible her grudge was against officer Morgan, but that's a stretch. Maybe he interrupted her."

"And she kills him and doesn't finish with Josiah?" Nathan said and shook his head. "That makes no sense either. None of this does," he said settling against the opposite wall from Chris, where he could keep an eye on the open door to Josiah's new room. He fiddled with the laptop, opening it.

"Anyplace else we can move Josiah to?" Buck asked. "If she got to him once--"

Travis shook his head. "No. But I'll talk to McCall. We'll set it up for two men, no one in or out of the room by themselves."

"I'll stay," Nathan offered but he was looking at Chris rather than Travis.

Chris swallowed. It would be splitting the team, cutting resources, but Josiah deserved as much attention and devotion as Vin. Maybe more; at least they knew Josiah was alive. He nodded, with only a fraction of a moment's hesitation. "Do it. Until we get something on whatever Hartman is up to, we're stalled."

Orrin Travis didn't argue but he looked less than pleased. "I'll set it up. She'll have an id on file. We'll get an APB out on her."

"Chris," Nathan said softly. If the man could have paled, he would have. He held up the laptop.

A text message, unsaved, easily erased or missed or...

Vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord.  
Sometimes, it belongs to the victims.  
Tanner was the last. Not the first.

 

She'd known. Two days they'd been looking, hunting trying desperately for clues, anything, and she'd been right there with them. Talking to JD, comforting Josiah, taking comfort from Buck.

Was it over then? Was she telling them Vin was dead? The last...not the cop, then, or maybe not. Was she on her way to where ever Vin was to make him the last of a line of victims for her own form of vengeance or justice or whatever it was?

He wasn't sure it would make that much difference to understand her motives. Not now. Still, she had announced herself, tied herself to them, to the case, to Vin's disappearance for a reason. Left a calling card they couldn't miss or ignore. "How long has she been on contract here?" he asked, waiting for Travis to flip through his own small notebook.

"Couple of months. Since before Christmas."

Before the church bombings had become fatal, well before any of them had been on the nightly news. "We have an address?"

"Not yet. It's coming," Travis said. "Where are you going with this?"

"She's been here, so this wasn't necessarily about Vin," Chris said slowly. "Not if the news broadcast was the trigger." He pulled his cellphone, not surprised when Ezra caught it on the first ring.

"Mr. Larabee, how's Josiah?"

Not really asking about his health -- they'd known Josiah was unhurt before they'd left the Federal building. "Shaken up. Aggravated," Chris said. "Ezra...the deal Madden's been talking about. See if he knows when it first got set up. Not when it's supposed to happen, but when the word first started circulating that it was happening."

"I can ask, and if not Eric then someone else may know. We are investigating timing because--"

"Because our suspect here has been working the hospital since before Christmas..."

"And that suspect would be--?"

Chris made a face. Ezra had been closer to her as well. "Right now, prime suspect is the physical therapist that treated you and Josiah. Woman, blonde,--"

"Michelle." Ezra said her name and then fell silent and Chris gave him the time to get his thoughts together for a moment.

"Right now, that's how it looks. Ez, if you go out hunting for more information...you take someone with you. We clear? You don't leave the building without back up. Clear?"

"As crystal, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said after a moment. "Let me try Madden first. Are you headed back?"

"Buck and I will be. Nathan's staying with Josiah until we can get the security issue under control."

"Probably wise."

Ezra was oddly quiet and Chris didn't like it. "I mean it, Standish. Not a move without back up."

"I assure you, I understood the order, Mr. Larabee," Ezra said, a little snappish.

"I don't doubt that -- I just want to make sure you agree to follow it."

"You have little faith in my good judgment, sir." Not nearly as annoyed and Chris almost grinned.

"Your judgment isn't in question, Ez. Just your common sense. See what you can find out," Chris said and rang off. He looked at the laptop and frowned a little. "Buck, see if you can grab an evidence bag from DPD. We may not be able to get any clear prints, but it's worth a try," he said and Nathan looked down and made a face, holding the laptop more carefully. "We didn't know, Nate," Chris offered absolving him of error. Badly handled evidence. Mistakes all around.

Ten minutes later he and Buck were headed back, the laptop in the hands of the Denver Police forensics team. They'd get it back and there were other prints Michelle Spencer had left.

Leaving Nathan and Josiah was harder than Chris thought it would be. The hospital was still buzzing with police. In theory, they would be safer there than on Denver's streets, but Chris still felt odd leaving them, like something was breaking apart.

"She got those bruises fighting with someone," Buck said quietly, about halfway back to the office and Chris twisted in the front seat of Travis' car to look at him.

"Not Vin," he said and Buck shook his head, Travis glancing at him in the rearview mirror.

"No. Somebody was beating on her. Holding her...seen it enough," Buck said, and Chris knew it to be true as well. He and Buck had seen enough of it on the police force; domestic violence, pimps beating on their whores, but Chris flashed back to seeing her in the hallway, to the challenge he thought he'd imagined in her gaze. Maybe his gut had been right.

Predator. Cold. Playing Buck like she knew him -- understood his weaknesses and Chris couldn't begin to think why. She'd even gotten around Ezra to some extent. JD had spoken of her kindly, gratified that she'd encouraged him to talk to Josiah while the man was unconscious. Nothing had pinged for Josiah -- although that could be as much the drugs as anything. Josiah was usually pretty astute.

She'd told Buck the men were nicer in Oklahoma. Idle comment or indicator? It might be worth looking into and Chris almost groaned at the thought of yet another thread being added to the web of confusion they were already trying to work their way through.

Travis pulled into the garage at the Federal building and rode up with them to his own floor, getting off and looking harried and worried and old, but mostly pissed off. He warned Chris to stay close -- again -- Chris pretty clear that there would be another briefing before the day was out.

Ezra was waiting for them, JD as well, both of them fighting hard to hide their own frustration, but not without news. "The word started circulating about four weeks ago, as near as I can pin it. Just after Christmas, but before the new year."

"And Michelle was here before then," Chris reiterated and went into the conference room to where Nathan had done his best to layout the timeline and the major players as Josiah had done.

It looked more like dirt bike trails than a roadmap, Anthony Hartman's picture pinned to the wall to the side along with his companion from the leasing office. Webster's Grading and Gravel lettered out in bold print. There was an answer here somewhere, in and among Nathan's carefully selected questions.

"What was the take from the mine?" Chris asked and JD had the info at hand, although not pulled from his brain as Josiah would do. The estimated inventory was impressive, based on what had been recovered after the explosion, as well as Buck and Vin's glimpse of the racks of gun crates. Laden trucks had been stopped, their contents tagged.

Hartman had managed to get enough out to seriously tip a war in some small third-world country. More than enough to arm rebels and drug runners in South America.

One sale. One huge illegal auction, millions of dollars, and Hartman would be shed of an operation that had partially failed. So, he'd come back into the country to sell the guns and seen Vin on TV? Seen them all.

"Why Vin?" Chris murmured, studying the wall. His gaze shifted to Ezra, not surprised to seen the green eyes fixed on his face. "Why not you? Or even Buck. He was at the mine, too."

"But not both. And it was Vin who was with Juarez when I killed him," Ezra said, not flinching. They couldn't dance around what had happened any longer. "I doubt seriously that Hartman knows it was I who pulled the trigger. But I'd hazard that Hartman knew what Juarez was doing. Was likely an accomplice. I can't quite see Chen Juarez climbing that hillside with the dead bodies of his victims."

"That operation in the mine was Juarez's," Buck said, easing his big frame onto the corner of a table to take the weight off his leg. "Hartman inherited his merchandise, but not his business contacts. Maybe retribution -- we messed up his life twice."

"It's in the forensics report --" JD said, sounding hesitant. "The charges in the mine, the ones on the building. They think it was the same person. Same style anyway. Same kind of explosives. Maybe he blames Vin for…all of it."

Chris took that in but it made less sense than it should have. "The bridge explosion should have killed Ezra and Josiah. Maybe all of us."

"Maybe it was meant to," Buck said. "Vin warned us. Too soon. Before we were in position. They had to be waiting for him. He had the door barred, the fire escape was being watched."

But not the tunnel leading to the loading dock. Hartman liked to bury his evidence. Chris felt suddenly queasy, the memory of the news broadcast over a year ago when a half dozen young men had been found, mutilated and buried in a common grave on the side of a nameless mountain. Michelle's message said that, now that he looked at it from this side.

"Chris?" Buck was there, suddenly, hand on his arm and he eased Chris into a chair.

"I'm all right," he said, but he wasn't. "We need to find Luis Gonzales."

"What? What's he got to do with this?" Buck said, recognizing the name.

JD got it first. "Michelle's message. She said 'Tanner was the last. Not the first' Luis was the first of Juarez's victims. He and Vin are the only ones who lived to talk about it."

And Luis not by much. He was a crippled in the worst way, barely able to speak or walk. He had inherited most of Juarez's estate -- the parts that the government didn't claim as illegally gotten assets. Still, Juarez's death had left him a wealthy man.

"You think he has something to do with this?" Ezra asked.

"I don't know," Chris said, pushing himself out of the chair. "But I damn well think we'd better find out."

Ezra gave that a moment's thought then moved, heading for his computer to pull the files. JD got back to work too, but Buck lingered, eyeing Chris, troubled and anxious.

"...'vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'," Buck said softly, quoting back the rest of the message. "Hers? Juarez's? Hartman's? Gonzales? We got a lot of players here and one of them is dead already."

"I know...and I don't know, Buck," Chris said fighting back the fear, the very lurid possibilities that sprang to mind. "He took Vin alive." He almost whispered it. "If he's as crazy as Juarez was…" Or worse. He couldn't say that out loud though. Didn't even want to think about it.

"We'll find him," Buck said firmly. "We will," he said and caught Chris' arm, just to get him moving.

Finding Vin in time was the real deadline, always had been.

##  ~Chapter Fourteen~

** 7:50 p.m., ATF Headquarters, Denver  
**  
The next couple of hours blurred for Chris. He knew he talked to people. Mostly Travis. His own team gave him progress reports, all of it very professional very, concise but still it seemed as if it was vague and edged with soundless whispers of what Hartman could do, what he would do.

It was getting dark again before they got a break. Nathan returned, uneasy about leaving Josiah, but currently the man had more guards than the President and about as much privacy. Nathan made sure they at least had food available to them, and called Josiah twice to check facts, or just check in.

A call from Travis around seven p.m. told them to sit tight, but not for what, and Chris was ready to chew plaster when their offices were suddenly invaded, or so it seemed.

Lawrence McCall looked tired and old. At the moment, he also looked royally pissed off and had the gleam of battle in his eye. Something about the man caused Chris, Buck and Nathan -- all of whom had seen military service -- to stand a little taller and pay very close attention. "We have two leads. Both from Webster's. We hauled the office manager out of her bridge game to open the files. Contract to one storage facility on the east side, to haul gravel. Another to the real estate accompany listing Juarez's estate. You can split up, stay together, stay here. Decide now. If you go, you have five minutes to meet us at the armory."

"Juarez's estate -- what's the contract for?" Chris asked. He didn't want to split them up and he never doubted that they'd all be going.

McCall's smile was ugly and wolfish. "Landscaping."

Chris felt his nerves steady. Landscaping. In winter. Chris knew where McCall was going. "We'll ride with you, sir," he said. McCall nodded.

Chris met Buck's eyes, then Nathan's, before following McCall out. They'd get his gear.

It was an inadequately horrendously small army that met at the armory and Chris wasn't surprised to find Travis kitted up as well. He wasn't sure he'd ever seen the man in a vest, much less in the dark coveralls that were standard for field operations. He'd be leading the second group and Chris felt a twinge of indecision, even as he took the vest from Nathan and strapped it on.

The groups split and McCall spread his maps over the hood of the communications van. Behind them Travis was doing the same with his own team. It took Chris a moment to realize that a good portion of McCall's tactical unit had been on the original Juarez bust.

He went over the maps anyway. The estate had originally been a ski resort, which meant there was minimal cover once they got to the actual structure. "DPD SWAT and as many officers as they can spare will be on standby. The State patrol's been alerted ready to shut off the roads north and south of either location. Whatever else we know, ladies and gentlemen, we know they have access to firepower that we can only dream about, and despite spotters as close as we can get them, we don't know how many people we may find ourselves up against. SOP down the line: reconnoiter, relay, negotiate and do not give ground. Once we cordon off an area, no one gets in or out. We'll approach from the main drive and from the road below. Watson, your team will take the secondary road access. You'll have a climb and the ground's going to be muddy and slick. There're no streetlights. If the house is dark, we'll be in the dark as well. The DOT will provide lights when we've ascertained target. But nobody moves without order. We have an agent missing. I know you all want to find him, get him out, but you hold your ground and check your impulses." McCall said, eyeing each of the twenty member team individually, but his eyes lingered on Chris and the rest of Team 7.

Chris met his gaze evenly. At least, at the estate, they had little worry about civilians. Travis would have the harder call and if Hartman were there, it could get ugly with residences and businesses so close. Certain he had their attention, if not their agreement, McCall handed out positions and responsibilities.

McCall seemed satisfied and they broke up, splitting into cars and vans. McCall didn't even look back when Team 7 joined him in the ops van. His own adjunct was driving, but McCall twisted in his seat to look at the five of them. "I meant what I said, gentlemen. This proves to be the target, you wait for my call. I don't have the resources to haul your asses back here and toss you into a holding cell, but don't think for a minute I won't come down on you like God himself if you maverick on me."

He got agreement across the board and the drive out was punctuated by Nathan making sure Buck's knee was taped up and that Ezra wasn't going to do himself more damage. JD looked nervous but resolute, unhappy about his assignment to Comms when he'd rather be with Buck or the others, but with several agencies, city of Denver departments, a score of agents on the ground and another operation across the city, communications was going to be the key to keeping the whole thing from falling apart, and McCall was smart enough to know it was better to keep JD busy than standing around waiting, which is what most of them would be doing.

The vans cut lights well before the approach, six agents making the hike along the trees lining the road to take the main entrance while McCall waited for word that Dave Watson's team was in position and making the climb up the slope from the road that cut through the hill south of the house.

The police barriers set over a year ago were still in place, if a little worn by time and weather, and Chris felt his heart beat irregularly at the idea that they'd called this wrong.

Then they found recent tire tracks in the soft ground.

It took another twenty minutes. Despite training, ATF agents were not commandos, and the stealth and capture the military used wasn't an option for law enforcement to use without stretching the point a bit.

"We have two guards secured," JD's voice said on a low whisper and Chris felt the slam of adrenaline in his system. Guards meant something to protect.

They loaded back up, lights off, aware of the way sound could carry and stopping just beyond the perimeter of the grounds and gardens that flanked the estate itself. It was dark, silent, the silver glow of moonlight obscured too often by clouds.

Chris had forgotten how big the place was. The 'house' itself was three stories at the highest point, sprawling across the property as if it were a small mountain in itself. A central upthrust housed the lobby and bar area and rooms above, wings descending to two stories then one for additional space. There was a meeting room, den and lounge on the west side; kitchens, service areas, smaller parlors and the dining room on the east and the entire damn thing wrapped by a covered porch that left the lowest level in total blackness. Before, they'd cut the power to produce confusion. Now, it was dark already, with open ground and a fickle moon ready to reveal anyone who tried to cross the broad expanse of snow dusted lawn with no cover.

Not that it mattered. Watson reported low-level activity and lights at the back of the house, as well as a damn fleet of cars tucked into the now empty stables.

They waited though, and watched. McCall checked in with Travis, then sent a pair of agents along the east side treeline to see if they could get anything more with night-vision and microphones.

And interminable twenty minutes later, McCall called it. Travis had turned up nothing and his team was on their way here. It would be an hour, at least, but the lights were on their way, along with the Denver police and the State Patrol was securing the area.

It almost seemed as if McCall were waiting for whatever business was being conducted to be finished, and they could pull whoever came out one at a time.

Watson reported the lights in the back had gone out, and McCall didn't waste any time trying to figure to if they'd been spotted or not. For a moment Chris worried McCall planned on keeping him and his men on a tight leash, but he sent Chris, Ezra and Nathan along the east side. He held Buck back, glaring when he looked like he might protest. "You can't run, Wilmington," was all McCall said; Buck would certainly have tried but he backed down quickly, eyeing Chris worriedly.

Chris gave his best shot at a reassuring smile and then he was moving, Ezra and Nathan and two other agents flanking him.

It started so suddenly they all flinched. Gun fire echoed, repeated, was answered and the pace picked up. West side -- men trying to make for their cars. McCall ordered the east side to hold and Chris twitched with the need to do something as the firefight built in intensity.

McCall's voice echoed across the grounds and the half dozen vehicles that had brought the ATF in suddenly snapped on lights and engines. They'd have to move forward to penetrate the shadows at the front and edges of the house and they did so, creeping forward. Without hearing the order, Chris knew, just knew, that Buck was driving one of them.

Over headsets McCall reiterated his order to hold, checking Chris' team and Watson's with all the finesse of Derby jockey.

"We've got movement. East side off the kitchens," Dan Richards, Team 3's sniper said, gun up and sighting. Chris checked as well, barely able to discern the shadowy figures but he moved even as McCall snapped off the order to contain.

Chris was used to having Buck at his side, but Ezra kept close, Team 1 spreading out to keep anyone from using the slope to escape.

Either the two men were unarmed or just surprised. Chris took one down in a tackle; Ezra was right there, dropping a knee onto the man's back, while Chris wrestled him down and Ezra cuffed him. A dozen yards away, Nathan and Paul Hope took the second, Dan and the two agents sent ahead covered them and then dragged their prisoners back to the treeline.

Not a shot went off on their side but the kitchen door stood open and Chris moved toward it. "Nathan, Paul…cover," he spat out. Ezra met his eyes and touched the brim of his hat and only when they were halfway there did Chris remember to call it in.

McCall was less than pleased.

"Sir," Chris whispered urgently, he and Ezra flanking the open door. "We have access. We've got two targets in holding. Cover for the door. Pick up the two we have and we can get inside…"

"We have personnel on the move, Larabee. Get your ass back to your position," McCall said.

"They can hold us off for hours. Sir, if Tanner's still alive--"

"He'd thank me for keeping *you* alive…" McCall said roughly, and Chris could hear the background chatter but not pick up the details. "Larabee! You at the door?"

"Yes, sir," Chris said.

"You wait…wait, you hear me? In another couple of minutes we're going to flood the front with light. East side, secure those targets. Tie them to a tree if you have to. Team one cover the East…I want two men outside. Watch your eyes--"

The warning almost came too late, but Chris turned his head as enough light to fill a football field suddenly washed over the landscape.

McCall didn't say it, but Chris took it as a signal, he and Ezra taking the door in a leapfrogging maneuver and hearing men move in behind them. Nathan and Paul held the door, Dan Richards and Allison Kirkland followed Ezra and Chris in.

Chris barely had time to think. Vin could be anywhere and from the sound of the gunfire, the voices echoing along the huge wooden halls, they had people above and in front of them. He desperately wanted to follow his hunch and head down, into the cellars, but it would do neither Vin nor the people moving with him any good to have them cut off.

They moved fast though, checking the kitchens, dining room and the private rooms that had once been Chen Juarez's. It made an odd sense that the bulk of the people fending off the ATF assault would be on the west side, vehicles and far more cover on that side, between the gardens and the stables.

The lights from outside left them dangerously exposed as they approached the main lobby, and the gunfire was sharper, closer, not as muffled. Through the pickup in his ear, Chris could hear McCall ordering more men to the east, but they'd be spread thin until Travis arrived.

The sense of déjà vu almost made Chris nauseous as he approached the cellar doors: there was no exit from below save up the narrow stairs, but anyone down there could cut get behind them and cut them off. A wave of his hand and Dan and Allison tried to position themselves to cover anyone coming at them from the west side of the house, with Ezra watching the upper staircase. Bad to do it alone but there wasn't a whole lot of choice.

The stairwell was dark, narrow, gunfire echoing hollowly in the small space, but in the bend of the stairs, Chris' eyes adjusted. More light below which made Chris gut clench.

The wine cellar was empty; a Coleman lantern sat on one of the tables. The panel that had once been secret stood ajar and more light spilled out.

He almost called Ezra down. The second room -- once a root cellar -- was a dead end with no other exit. The gap of the doorway was narrow, and even skirting the edges of the wine cellar, Chris could see only a foot or so inside the room. There was light there though and he pressed his back to the wall and took a deep breath. He caught a whiff of foulness mingled in with the damp and mold and the smell of old wine that was enough to make him want to gag.

Gunfire from above made him tense, barely able to hear Ezra's muttered curse in and among the back chatter along the line. He switched over to the command line, McCall repositioning men and trucks as the DPD Swat team joined the party.

Switching back and he caught Ezra calling his name.

"Still here," Chris whispered.

"They're trying to come down the main stairs. We can hold them here but not for long…Anything?" Ezra asked, the calm in his voice belying the anxiety that rode his question.

"Checking…give me two, Ezra."

There was no real choice. He couldn't pull Ezra down and leave Dan and Allison to hold off God knew how many perps were occupying the upper floors.

He took the door low, immediately checking the insides, where he was the most blind.

He didn't need to bother. Hartman was there looking cool and unsurprised, so damned arrogant Chris wanted to put a bullet in him just on principle. And he might have save for the very effective shield he stood behind.

Thoughts of homicide were quickly followed by nausea, and a dry mouthed fear that Chris couldn't swallow. Couldn't even draw a breath.

Nightmares weren't supposed to take form but there it was, there Vin was, strung up as he'd been before, naked, bloodied, bruised and filthy, another Coleman lantern graphically illuminating every abused inch of him with stark harshness. Handcuffs secured him to the same hook he'd been tied to before. Fresh blood streaked his forearms from the metal cutting into his wrists. His head hung down, lank hair obscuring his face and his skin so pale Chris wasn't even sure he was alive.

"Agent Larabee…I'd say I'm surprised, but really, I'm not," Hartman said from his protected position behind Vin, the muzzle of the gun in his hand rubbing along the bruised ribs. "Is this what you are looking for?"

"There's no way out, Hartman." Chris finally found his voice, his own aim unwavering. He'd take Hartman in the shoulder, a leg, anything he got a chance at. "Put the gun down and you might live through the night."

"I intend to live a good deal longer than that -- and not in a jail cell. We have an impasse, Mr. Larabee, but not a non-negotiable one. You want Mr. Tanner. I want to catch a plane. Surely something can be arranged."

"Not on your life," Chris snarled out, hearing Ezra in his ear and ignoring him.

"I wouldn't think so, but on *his* life?" Hartman said, voice taking on the quality of cold steel as the gun shifted out of Chris' line of sight and a low whimper escaped Vin. Chris' jaw clenched, his grip on the high powered rifle tightened. Vin was alive. He couldn't even find any joy in that because at the moment, it was a transitory thing.

Hartman shifted and Vin jerked, groaned softly, even semi-conscious struggling against whatever pain Hartman was inflicting.

It took only a moment for Chris to figure out what it was, to remember what Hartman was and what he was capable of.

"If I pull the trigger now, it's possible Mr. Tanner won't die immediately. But the damage, Mr. Larabee, would most likely be fatal…blood loss, peritonitis, liver and kidney failure, intestines ripped apart. Guaranteed to be painful…" He reached up to catch Vin's hair, jerking his head back, pulling another small, hoarse cry from him that made Chris' blood run cold and his temper ignite. "Of course, if I aim straight up…" He dug the gun deeper into Vin's ass. "It's entirely possible the bullet might make it all the way to his brain."

"And at this range, I could shoot through him and nail you," Chris said in a harsh whisper and almost smiled at the surprised look on Hartman's face.

"You might kill him."

"I'm a better shot than that." And Vin would probably rather die than be fucked by Hartman's gun. It was almost enough for Chris to just do it. "Now get him down!" Chris snapped.

Hartman's lip curled, eyes narrowed and Chris stopped breathing again, finger tightening on the trigger, wondering if he could actually get a shot through Vin's body and take Hartman out. One part of him was appalled that he could even think it, his gut clenching at the thought of it. At this range it probably would kill Vin, and then what had he gained except to get one more piece of scum off the planet?

He couldn't do it. He knew it at the same time Hartman's nerves cracked and he jerked the gun free and snapped it around Vin, firing a single shot that caught Chris high in the chest. It knocked him back, a second shot really punching at his chest, the vest taking the impact but it hurt like hell.

"The next one, Agent Larabee will go right through him," Hartman said, pressing the gun to Vin's back. "Put the gun down."

Gasping for breath and ready to drop, Chris lowered the rifle, ejecting the clip and tossing the gun at the ground beneath Vin's feet. Hartman kicked it aside. "Pistol too, please," he said and Chris reached carefully for the gun under his arm. He pulled it out carefully, dumped the clip on it as well and tossed it.

Only then did Hartman move from behind Vin, gun unwaveringly fixed on Chris' head. Beckoning Chris closer, they almost traded places. "Arms around him please…While I check to make sure you don't have any other weapons," Hartman said and Chris' breath caught as he got close enough to Vin to touch him.

He didn't forget the threat aimed at his head, but wrapping his arms around Vin was almost worth it. His skin was chilled, slick with sweat. Chris held him tightly, taking the weight off his arms while Hartman patted him down and found his backup gun in his ankle holster.

"You can turn around now, Mr. Larabee."

Chris didn't move for a moment, but then set his jaw and instead of turning, he lifted, raising Vin high enough to slip the chain off the hook. Without its support Vin collapsed, Chris almost going to his knees with the additional weight but he caught him, let him slide a little, and then Chris did go down, easing Vin to the ground until he felt the gun muzzle press to the back of his head.

All his senses felt acute -- on overdrive with adrenaline and endorphins making him feel hot and tense even in the chill air. The gunfire above was muffled, surreal, like thunder; Chris' heart pounded almost loud enough to block it entirely. A hand raked through his hair, pulling the headset off and then freeing the radio. Ezra's frantic hissing of his name faded into the quiet of the cellar.

"This should make things easier," Hartman said. "Get up. You and I are going to take a little walk," he said and Chris shifted back, wondering if he could take him, if he could turn fast enough, but Hartman backed up. "Hands behind your head…" he was ordered and Chris took another breath and did as he was told.

Hartman was going to use him for a shield…and with the radio, he'd know what was happening upstairs.

But so would Ezra -- or part of it. Enough to figure it out and maybe get word out that Vin was here...

He turned around to face Hartman. His chest ached and not just from the bullet impacts -- Hartman wanted him subdued, not incapacitated or he'd have dragged Vin out as a hostage.

But the thought of leaving Vin here, walking away from him, made his legs tremble and his fists clench.

The gun shifted and in the split second it took to happen, Chris knew Hartman had no intention of leaving Vin alive.

It was all instinct to throw himself forward and to the side. Another hit on his vest but then he was close enough to grab Hartman's gun hand, forcing it up. The struggle slammed them into the wall, then across the table with the lantern, knocking it over. Enough light bled in from the other room and Chris found an opening to slam Hartman's arm down again and again until the gun skittered away. Hartman was hitting back, but he was more likely to break his hand on the Kevlar than do any damage. For a brief moment he got a hand on Chris' throat, but rage and training won out, and Chris lashed out, then dropped, driving a knee into Hartman's stomach, ready to beat him to a pulp.

Hartman was only able to defend himself, curling up, and Chris finally found presence of mind to hunt for the gun. He snagged it, and the lantern, righting it. "Roll over, you piece of shit," Chris snarled, pulling his cuffs out. "Do it!" he yelled.

Hartman shifted, rolled, casting a murderous look Chris' way; that suddenly changed and he smiled.

"Agent Larabee. Shooting Tony would be a very bad idea."

Chris froze at the voice. Pleasantly husky. Feminine. Cold.

"Now please or I will kill Mr. Tanner and this -- all of this -- will be for nothing," Michelle said.

Chris whirled, shifting targets, unable to cover them both, the three of them at angles with the fourth corner the door.

Michelle was crouched next to Vin, wearing a sleeveless grey mini dress. She looked nearly as bad as Vin. Someone had worked her over but good, but she seemed to neither notice nor care that her face was bruised, lips puffy and bloodied, that her arms and legs showed more bruises and welts. She was looking at him but the gun was aimed at Vin's head, less than a six inches away from his face

He choked back a sob and swore instead, easing his finger off the trigger and dropping his arm.

And suddenly she shifted her aim and fired past Chris. Hartman's startled cry was as much a surprise to Chris as it was to Hartman.

She'd shot him in the leg, but so fast and now her gun was pointed at Vin again. "I didn't say you could move, Tony. You forgot to say 'Mother, may I'." she said.

"You stupid bitch! What are you doing?" Hartman yelled, clutching his leg, bright blood leaking past his fingers.

Chris found his target again, right between the curves of her breasts. "What do you want?"

"Fulfilling my contract, honey," she said and smiled, cocking her head. "Now…Agent Larabee…Chris. I think you have what you came for… you should take him and get out," she said.

"I--"

Michelle fired again, into the ground only a few inches from Vin's head. Vin flinched at the sound, maybe even at the spatters of dirt hitting his face, tried to roll away but it was like watching a dying fish flop on the ground "Really, Chris…I insist," she said and that cold look was back in her eyes. "You don't need to worry…Tony won't be any more trouble." she said.

"I'll kill you myself, you bitch!" Hartman snarled at her.

"Shut up, Tony. Chris and I are working a deal. Aren't we, Chris?" she said. "It might work," she said conversationally. "You might shoot me before I can kill Tanner and then you could call for help. Or…I might pull the trigger…but I don't really need you or Tanner at all. Because I'm really here for Tony…"

"You're going to kill him…" Chris said, fascinated and repulsed, weighing the lives hanging in the balance here -- his own included.

"I am…but I need some time to do it right," she said and without looking or the gun moving one inch, she pulled a sharp scalpel from her pocket. "Of course, you're welcome to stay and watch."

"You…you can't!" Hartman said, voice breathless, both anger and fear riding his voice. Chris didn't even turn his head. "She's insane."

"As opposed to you? Really, Tony, you know yourself better than that…*I* know you better than that. Shall I tell you what he had planned for your friend, Chris? He's already shot him twice…burned him, beaten him….offered him to his hired boys as a treat…" she said. "He even offered him to me…but Vin…he didn't really seemed interested…wonder why that is?" she asked softly. "What's it going to be, Chris? Save the world? Save your…friend? Your *partner*…" she said and pressed the gun to Vin's temple. "Three…" her finger tightened on the trigger, Chris' entire attention narrowed to the press of metal to Vin's flesh, even though his aim didn't shift. "…Two…"

"You can have him!" Chris said and pulled his gun to his shoulder.

"This is murder!"

"This is justice," Michelle hissed out before Chris could speak. "Toss your gun into the next room, Agent Larabee."

Chris hesitated only a second before complying. Even as the gun flew through the air, Michelle was rising, clearing the way for Chris to get to Vin. She dropped something beside Vin's head.

"Ammonia capsule. I need privacy," she said, and Chris dropped, to one knee, fumbling for the capsule and breaking it under Vin's nose.

It was painful to watch him struggle for full consciousness, agonizing to hear him cry out when Chris bodily pulled him up over his shoulder, praying he wasn't doing more damage.

Hartman was almost gibbering in fear, but Michelle only watched as Chris made it to the door. "Remember what happened when Lot's wife turned back," Michelle warned him as he stepped up into the wine cellar. Then she was pulling the door shut.

Hartman started screaming before Chris found his gun and for half a second he thought about going back, but Vin muttered his name and clutched at him. Chris eased him down, holding him up against the wall.

"Chr…Chris…?"

"Yeah…yeah, Vin. I'm right here…I'm right here.. I've got you," Chris murmured, searching the pain glazed eyes and seeing recognition. "We have to go…" he said as another muffled scream fell between the gun shots he could still hear above. They weren't out of this yet. Not even close. He had no radio, no way to let Ezra or anyone know he had Vin or where they were. It scared him that Michelle had gotten downstairs at all which meant Ezra had to pull back or he was…was…

Vin was alive. He pulled the other man to him carefully, felt Vin's fingers clutch weakly at his arm. "We're gonna get out of here now…can you walk at all?"

He got no real answer, only Vin's face pressed to his shoulder, repeating his name, but he wasn't falling down -- quite -- and Chris pulled his uninjured arm over his shoulder and caught his waist, the gun in the hand steadying Vin's arm. "Let's go home, partner."

Anthony Hartman's screams faded, although not entirely: Chris tried to shut them out, tried to focus on other things, other sounds. Trying to remember his way out of this rabbit warren of a house. Mostly it was Vin's harsh breathing that caught his attention, his partner clinging to the open sleeve of his vest with a strength Chris hadn't expected. Vin's right arm hung uselessly at his side and he had to lean heavily on Chris to even keep moving -- Vin's part of it mostly comprised of not passing out and dragging them both down.

The stairs were the worst: Chris barely able to stand to hear the hissing hitch of breath that told him Vin was doing all he could to not scream. He had to feel his way, the stairwell pitch-black once they turned the corner and lost the dim light from the cellar. The tread on the steps was shallow as was the rise, which made it easier to pull Vin along but made the stairs seem to stretch on forever. Chris almost missed it when the stairs ran out and they were on the shallow landing, the shattered door still open and pressed against the outside wall. He paused there, letting his eyes adjust because there was more light, but not by much. Enough for shadows to differentiate themselves between lighter for the walls and hallway and darker for the doorways.

He pressed his lips to Vin's temple, trying to orient himself, to recall if they should go left or right to reach the door, any door. The hallway wrapped around the central part of the house and the staircase that rose up in the center. He and Ezra had come down on the east side. "Almost there, Vin," he whispered, not surprised when he didn't get a response. Kitchens were probably closer than the front and he got a tighter grip on Vin to pull him to the left.

Shots fired and Chris pulled back, almost wedging Vin against the wall behind the doorway. Christ, he'd kill for a headset -- he'd kill without one -- but the chances of he and Vin getting killed by friendly fire was pretty high at the moment. He couldn't even be sure getting Vin outside was the best plan, since most of the shooting seemed to be coming from the grounds rather than inside the house.

Vin started to slump against him, fingers losing their grip and Chris twisted to catch him. Wood splintered only an inch from where his head had been and he had to let Vin fall, barely able to ease his collapse as he returned fire. More shots and Chris found himself straddling Vin's limp body, trying to make himself a smaller target, trying to protect Vin, and looking for muzzle fire in the darkness.

A bullet creased across the side of his vest, knocking him back a little and he went to one knee, feeling the muscles in his left thigh pull from the awkward sprawl. He pushed Vin down flat, to make him less of a target. "Give it up, goddamnit! Hartman's dead!" Chris found himself screaming into the darkness and firing again. He heard a yelp of pain, and fired once more, making out the shadow of an open doorway finally. The space beyond was dark, but he was becoming more aware of the striating flicker of lights to his right…light from the windows. He was near the front of the house then, which seemed wrong, but that was where the driveway was.

More shots and there was nowhere for him to go but down, pressing against Vin, scared suddenly because he couldn't hear Vin breathing. Another bullet hit his vest and then there was a burning pain across his thigh. They couldn't see him either, not well, but he was too exposed -- they both were, and he was running low on ammo.

Shoving an arm under Vin's chest he pulled, a crab walk of a movement to get them further back in the stairwell. Bullets peppered the opposite wall -- to his left then, and he put his back to the wall, rolling Vin up to his chest and behind him. As long as no one shot him in the head, they'd have to go through him to get Vin.

His arm ached from holding the gun up and his other arm ached differently from holding Vin to him. Other than his hand, he couldn't feel Vin. Not really. The vest blocked whatever warmth there might be, not that Vin's skin was warm under his hand. It was chilled. Clammy.

How many miracles could a man hope for in one lifetime? How many could he ask for before he used up his allotment? The firing stopped and Chris listened -- for footsteps, for noise. They were still taking potshots at each other outside. Another bullet buried itself in the frame of the door and Chris fired -- and came up empty. His rifle, the extra clips, his other gun, all downstairs…with her. And she'd have to come up eventually.

//Please…// he thought, dropping his gun hand, digging his fingers into Vin's hair and curling around him just that much. A small sound escaped Vin's throat, too much like pain but all the sweeter for being made at all, even if they might both be dead in a few seconds, as soon as Hartman's men realized he was out of bullets. "I've got you, Vin," he whispered softly and lifted his head when he heard a creak along the wood floors, beyond the door, and drew his legs up, ready to lunge, tackle…

Another shot but this one across the expanse of the doorway. Return fire and Chris flinched as the staccato bursts came fast -- a semi automatic -- and glass shattered somewhere just as there was another low grunt of pain and the sound of a body hitting the floor.

Quiet then, from close by, anyway.

"Mr. Larabee?" Barely a whisper but Chris knew the voice.

"Ezra?"

"Here…" A light flickered, a penlight only, but it found the door way and then caught Chris in the face as Ezra eased around the corner. "Thank God," Ezra breathed, taking only long enough to glance over both Chris and Vin before turning the light off.

"I'm out of ammo."

Ezra pulled a snub nosed .38 from his boot and passed it to Chris. "Where's Hartman?"

"Below…don't…That woman…Michelle from the hospital…she was after Hartman."

"I don't think I want to know," Ezra said, then tapped the radio on his shoulder. "Seven-five to seven-two. Buck, I've got them. Near the kitchens. Back stairs." He listened and Chris did too, but he was listening to Vin breathe again. "We need an exit," Ezra said but not to Chris, not then. A moment later, he touched Chris' shoulder. "We had to pull back. Dan took a bullet in the leg, Allison got him out. There's a half dozen men holding them off on the second floor, but there's a room, there," he pointed across the hall opposite where the shooters had been, "with windows. The ambulances are being held at the gates."

"Let's get the fuck out," Chris hissed, pushing himself upward, ignoring the twinge in his leg, blood running sticky and hot along his jeans. It hurt like hell but the limb held as Ezra helped him get Vin up and over his shoulder. Chris tried desperately not to think of what other injuries he might be inflicting or aggravating. Ezra was whispering again but he stayed close, weapon out, guiding Chris, watching his back. "Nathan and Agent Hope will meet us there."

Paul Hope was team three's medic. Chris moved, guided by Ezra's hand and the brightening flash of lights. Across the hall and down to another doorway and Chris could see the lights hitting the windows from the emergency vehicles outside.

"Agent Standish."

Ezra stopped and whirled, Chris barely able to keep his balance as another shot rocked through the house. Ezra was thrown back against him and his already unsteady stance gave way. All Chris could think was to protect Vin, keeping him from hitting the floor and he barely succeeded, trying to draw his own gun as Ezra gasped and struggled beside him. The bullet had hit his vest but it was close and high caliber.

"I did promise Tony a heart shot," Michelle said calmly, holding the gun steady. "Granting a man's dying wish." She was half in shadow but the lights caught here and there, skin and clothes spattered with dark glistening stains. "I hate breaking promises," she said, softly, eyes flickering over Chris and Vin. She backed up, smiled at Chris, and slid back out the door.

"Jesus," Chris whispered. "Ezra…"

"All right," Ezra wheezed and sat up. "Heart shot, just as she promised," he said touching the dented kevlar -- a deep dimple right over his heart. "The letter of her agreement, if not the law…" He got up, staggering still but made it to the window, pushing open the casement carefully and pulling out his penlight again.

It took a few moments for a response, Ezra trying to keep an eye on both the window and the open doorway, and Chris crouched once more between Vin and the door, a hand on his chest as he watched.

"Chris…" A tap on his shoulder and Nathan was there, passing off his weapon, Paul Hope right behind him with a kit and flashlights. Chris shifted his position to better be able to guard the door but he wouldn't entirely leave Vin's side, knee pressed to Vin's calf as Nathan and Paul worked as quickly as they could. He closed his eyes briefly as he heard automatic weapons fire from above. Paul had his maglite in his mouth as he worked a pressure dressing over the wound on Vin's inner thigh, Nathan working on his arm

"God, they can't get out," Chris hissed softly, listening to the return fire echoing in the floors above. Outside, someone was shouting for surrender over a bullhorn. The answer came in a rapid burst of gunfire. "Why don't they give it up?"

"I doubt our adversaries are actually entertaining entirely rational thoughts," Ezra whispered back. "Hartman? I heard you…"

Chris didn't quite know what to say. "Michelle….I guess she had a grudge," he said and Ezra stared at him for a long moment. "She's still loose…"

"But not after us…" Ezra reminded him.

"We're ready," Nathan said softly and thumbed his headset. "Seven-two, we're coming out on the east side--"

Shadows moving across the hallway, and they were still blind, but open targets with the flashlights. They went out at Chris' warning but they'd already been spotted. Just shadows as he and Ezra opened fire, Paul and Nathan both covering Vin's body crosswise in an instinctual movement that Chris prayed he'd remember to thank them for later.

One body fell, sprawled in the doorway and then there was running, shouting from the front of the house, and Chris waved his team back, toward the windows, toward better cover at least if they couldn't get out. "Ezra, take point," Chris said as they reached the open window, Ezra going through first and then Nathan, leaving Paul to lift Vin up and through the window to where Nathan waited. He could hear Ezra calling up Buck again, looking for a clear way out, Paul and Nathan slinging Vin between them.

Hitting ground sent fresh pain up Chris' leg, but he brought up the rear, trusting Ezra and Nathan to get them out, or at least get them out of the line of fire. He could see the ambulances now, impossibly far away and there was no damn cover anywhere.

Then they didn't need it as weapons fire rocked the front of the house, it suddenly hit Chris that they'd been the last ones out, that the rest of the assault team had been merely keeping Hartman's men occupied. Halfway across the lawn and they were met and then flanked by a living shield of men and women in riot gear and flak jackets. Travis and McCall had stinted nothing, held back no reserves that Chris could tell.

Their human shield got them to the ambulances, out of the range of fire, and then broke away, returning to the firefight and Chris could barely hear McCall on a bullhorn, calling out again for a surrender in a momentary lull in the shooting. He was pushed aside as the EMTs moved in for Vin; Paul and Nathan talking urgently as a gurney was pulled from the back of an ambulance. But they were working, which meant Vin was still alive, still breathing and, at the moment, Chris couldn't deal with any more than that.

He vaguely heard Ezra talking as well, telling someone, Buck or JD probably, that Vin was still breathing. Ezra's face was wet-bright, sweat on his skin and a darker stain on his arm, Chris able to make out a furrow of dark blood along the upper part of his bicep. Chris stared at it, felt an echoing throb in his thigh. A twinge and he reached out to grip the bottom edge of the stretcher to steady it as Vin was lifted from ground to gurney

"Nathan?" Chris asked, almost afraid to know the prognosis. Under the glare of lights, Vin looked worse than he had in the semi-darkness of the cellar. Nathan gave some thought to Vin's modesty, flicking a sheet over most of him but leaving the thigh exposed and Chris swallowed back bile at the gaping wound. He didn't need a medical degree to know it was badly infected and how could it not be with Vin forced to remain in filth for days? Vin's knees and shins were covered with sores as well, what Chris had thought to be dirt and dried blood actually broken skin and oozing scrapes.

Nathan waited for the IV's to go in before he looked up at Chris, face grim, but Chris wasn't sure if it were because of the conditions Vin had been forced to endure or because it wasn't looking good. "Holding his own," Nathan said and moved away so they could lift the gurney. Chris followed it, hesitating, torn between wanting to see the end of this and needing to be with Vin.

But it was done, wasn't it? Except for the mop up…Hartman was dead, Chris assumed so, although he supposed the woman might have been lying, maybe saving her boss.

By shooting him. Or worse.

"Go, Chris. Get that leg looked at. Ezra and I will be right behind you," Nathan said, giving him a little push, and then had to help him step up. Chris wasn't even sure he'd made the decision but then he was in, sliding toward the rear of the ambulance, near Vin's head.

The last thing he heard before the doors closed was Ezra arguing with Nathan that his arm was fine, only a scratch. Then the sirens started up and he could hear nothing.

The paramedic still working on Vin had a head set on but Chris couldn't hear anything save the sirens and the beeping of the portable monitors. Very carefully he reached out to rest his palm on Vin's forehead, pulling the matted, filthy hair back off his face. Vin's skin had gone from cold and clammy to hot and wet. His face was hollowed and bruised, eyelids almost translucent, and Chris could detect no movement beneath them. He didn't dare look anywhere else, trying to ignore the splash of bright red to his right, seeping through the bandage on Vin's upper arm. Just his face, upside down from Chris' position. The paramedic was doing his best to clean Vin's lower legs, to see the damage done there and Chris leaned forward both to block the sight of ruined flesh and because he felt dizzy and nauseated. The smell he had caught hints of in the cellar was doubly strong in this enclosed space, and the paramedic was looking a little green too.

Carefully, he laid his hands along either side of Vin's face, careful not to move the oxygen mask and pressed his forehead to Vin's. "Just hang on…I'm here, Vin. It's over….you're gonna be okay," he said it, as much for himself as or Vin, if he could hear anything.

A sound, strangled and weak, like a hiss, sounded and Chris tried to figure out which machine it was, then realized it was his name and looked down to seek Vin blinking, blue eyes fever bright, but focused. They blinked rapidly, moisture escaping the corners and Chris shifted a little to the side, so Vin wouldn't have to strain to see him.

"You're safe, Vin. I got you…we're on the way to the hospital…"

Vin blinked again and tried to lift his arm, pulling strongly when the paramedic tried to keep him still. Chris slid his fingers over the back of Vin's left hand and then threaded their fingers together. "Don't talk…just rest."

Vin's fingers clutched at him and he closed his eyes, breathing becoming erratic as he fought for it, alarming both Chris and the paramedic until Chris realized the movements, the gasping for air, were sobs. Vin's whole frame shook with them: quiet, painful sobs for breath, for pain, for fear or relief -- Chris had no way to know although he suspected mostly the latter. Chris wrapped the fingers of his other hand around Vin's skull, rubbing there softly, holding his hand and wishing he had words to ease this. "It's all right, Vin. Shhh…it's okay…" Chris said leaning close, speaking into Vin's ear, never releasing his two point hold, even though a sharp right turn forced him to brace his bad leg or fall on Vin. He winced and hid it, pressing his lips to Vin's forehead. Straightening up, he realized Vin had gone limp again and he flashed a worried look at the paramedic.

"Passed out," the man mouthed, indicating the monitors with his eyes since Chris couldn't really hear him. Vin's heart rate was fast, as was his respiration, but they were steady enough, Chris supposed, watching the temperature indicator continue to climb.

He pressed his forehead to their joined hands and prayed.  


##   
~ Chapter Fifteen ~

** Sunday, 11:46 p.m., Denver Memorial Hospital  
**  
The leg wound was more annoying than dangerous; Chris surrendered one half of a pants leg for them to clean and bandage it. Straight through the fleshy part of his outer thigh, it was already swelling by the time they finished. He was on his feet even as the doctor was warning him to stay off it. His chest ached with a dull throb and occasional sharp pain when he moved too fast or breathed too deep. It felt ironic that he had similar bruises on his chest to those Vin bore.

Nathan had been good as gold, keeping him updated on Vin, and Chris got lost in the quietly voiced reassurances of his condition. They were pumping Vin full of fluids and antibiotics, anxious about the bruising on his chest, and a catalog of other indignities and cruelties.

They were most worried about Vin's leg, the infection there and how close, dangerously close, the bullet had passed to the femoral artery. It hadn't opened it -- Chris knew that. Vin would be dead long since if it had, but Nathan had said something about tissue damage and stretching, muscle damage, restricted blood flow. They were trying to save his leg and his life at the same time, but one might have to be sacrificed for the other.

It seemed like days before Buck showed up, JD locked to his side. Ezra had turned up shortly after Chris and, after his arm was seen to, alternated between pacing the hall and going upstairs with Nathan to see Josiah. Some part of the tightness in Chris' chest eased when all seven of them were in the same place. Injured, battered, bruised, but together and for the moment, alive. Nathan and JD were the only ones not showing some kind of lingering mark from the whole sorry, insane business.

Or nothing so obvious as a bruise or cut. But JD looked shocked and a little green, frighteningly subdued. Buck had a little better grip on his expression but not by much -- and controlling his expression wasn't normal for Buck anyway.

"Done?" Chris asked, the only thing he could ask, because he didn't care about the rest. They were all back down, waiting in the small emergency waiting room, reserved for conferences, rather than in the general area. Groups of men with bullet-proof vests and guns tended to make the rest of Denver's population a little nervous.

Buck nodded. "Mopping up. They'll be bringing a few of Hartman's men here--" he said and Chris bristled at that until Buck held up his hand. "Most of them are headed for the morgue or will be…they'll shift 'em over to county later. Won't be anyone we have to worry about."

It didn't make Chris feel any better and he checked his gun anyway. "Don't care. I'll get Travis or McCall to get some protection on Vin and Josiah," he said, and glanced at Buck. "Hartman?"

JD looked like he was going to be sick and Chris wasn't sure he wanted the details -- knew he didn't. Michelle's eyes, her voice, Hartman's screams, the blood on her when she'd taken her shot at Ezra. Chris didn't know why he hadn't shot her then. It wasn't gratitude for her help in getting Vin out. He had no doubt she would have just as easily killed both him and Vin if he'd pushed it.

Buck took a breath, arm unconsciously settling on JD's shoulders and JD didn't protest. "I think…as much as you hate Hartman…she hated him more," he said.

"You didn't find her."

"One of the McMillan's team took a shot at someone behind the house, going down the ridge. McCall sent cars to the road but they haven't found anyone yet. She say anything?"

Chris hesitated. She'd said a lot…and he'd report it, but he hadn't filtered through it all yet, and she scared him, sent a lance of fear through him as few things -- or people -- had ever done. "Not about why," he said finally. "She was…driven."

"Sick." Nathan supplied.

"Disturbed," Ezra murmured, fingering his chest.

"Twisted…" Buck added to it with a quirk of his lips, eyes still hooded by trying not to see what he'd seen.

"A monster…" JD said it, so low and soft, Chris wasn't sure he'd heard it because it wasn't a cast off, not a macabre addition to the word game they'd started without really meaning to. JD flushed, which was good because he needed some color in his face.

Chris met and held his eyes for a moment before nodding. "Yeah, she is…" Chris agreed because it fit. She was a monster -- someone had created her, made her into what she was. The same with Hartman he supposed, or Juarez…monsters all. And yet not so far away from the rest of the human race that they could be called entirely separate.

"Agent Larabee? Agent Jackson?"

The nurse looked at the five men a little uncertainly, but Chris pushed off the wall and she focused on him. "They are bringing Mr. Tanner down from surgery. The doctor should be here in a few minutes--"

"How's he--"

"They are moving in him into of recovery, sir. That's all I know," she said kindly but firmly and Chris nodded.

It was closer to twenty minutes before the doctor appeared, nonplussed by the five expectant faces. "It went well. He's in recovery. We were able to repair the worst of the damage to his leg, stabilize the area. We'll have to watch his leg and there may be some long term recovery issues to deal with."

Chris' hearing stopped more or less, knowing Vin hadn't lost his leg. He heard the rest but wasn't ready to process it yet. He felt Buck's hand on his shoulder and even more briefly, Ezra's, the two of them holding him up, literally if not figuratively.

"--not entirely out of the woods. Antibiotics seem to be working, but he's still running a fever, dehydrated---"

In and out, the words, like breathing or the pounding of Chris' heart. His eyes and throat burned and it all blurred into something he no longer had any control over, though he sucked air and tried, desperately, to concentrate on the doctor, on what he was saying about therapy and recovery protocols.

He felt like a child, able to hold onto only one fact, one thing, when he knew he should be paying attention to the rest, that he'd need to know all the details of Vin's condition and of his recovery, but he couldn't care, only peripherally aware when the doctor left, Nathan walking out with him, when everyone but Buck seemed to occupy themselves elsewhere -- Ezra and JD going to get them coffee or something. Chris missed it because Ezra was mumbling, which seemed odd.

Later he would try to deny all of it, claiming exhaustion and relief, but no one called him on it, no one mentioned it. Chris only recalled it, remembered it, being pulled down on the low out-of-style vinyl couch with Buck's arms around him, rocking him as if he were a child while every tear that Chris hadn't been able to let go of before then came out in a flood that seemed more suited to grief than joy.

A quarter of an hour later, Chris was more in control and had to be because he had Travis on the phone and more agents in the lobby and they were moving Vin out of recovery. Chris only barely managed to pass the phone to Ezra before he was heading up, hovering in the doorway while the nurses got Vin settled into a room in the SCU, the rest of the team not far behind, but more than willing to give Chris time and the room.

They'd cleaned him up some -- had to to get the grime off him enough to be able to operate without more infection. Settled under a white sheet and beige blanket, Vin didn't have much more color than the blanket, making every bruise and stitch more pronounced. His right arm was bandaged from elbow to shoulder, the skin above and below looking angry and swollen but healthier than Chris had last seen. The bruises on his face and throat were lurid purples and greens still: Fingerprints on the long throat and under his jaw. They had his right leg elevated, the bulky bandage around his thigh obvious even under the blankets -- but so was the rest of his leg, and Chris offered up a silent prayer of thanks that it was so. They'd have dealt with it but he was very glad it hadn't come to that.

The fluids they'd given Vin were starting to ease the gauntness in his face, puffing up the pair of raccoon-masked eyes. They'd done nothing with his hair except pull it back loosely, which only made Vin's face more gaunt with that squared off jaw and the high, pronounced flare of his cheekbones. His lips were still dry though, swollen, the upper one split and stitched at the left corner and Chris wondered if it would leave a scar.

If he hadn't known it was Vin, he wasn't sure he would have recognized him.

The chair by the bed was in no way comfortable and Chris ignored it in favor of lowering the rail and sitting on the edge of the bed, catching the hand of Vin's uninjured arm in between his own. In reaction, Vin's fingers naturally curled around his hand but it was a loose, purposeless grip. Warm though, almost too hot, despite the doctor's assurance that his temperature was coming down under the steady application of antibiotics and fluids.

Chris thought maybe he should be talking to him. Isn't that what you did to help someone orient themselves after surgery, after trauma? Vin had to have been conscious at some point for them to release him from the recovery room, but even with the pain killing drugs Chris knew had to be running through Vin's system, he was loathe to do anything to disturb the deep lines of relaxation and sleep on Vin's face, just to have him conscious and aware. He'd get there in his own time if Chris could be patient.

He didn't know how long he sat there. Long enough for the others to come in quietly, as much to check on him as to reassure themselves that Vin was still with them. To see him, touch him at shoulder or head. Vin was quiet through all of it, even when Chris left for a few minutes to get something to drink, to set up some kind of schedule or assignment of duties. Travis and McCall came by just at the end of visiting hours to make their own kind of check -- on the team, maybe, more than Vin -- and stopped by with Nathan to check on Josiah, two floors down and just anxious about Vin as the rest of them were. From everything Chris could remember the doctor saying, they'd likely be getting out around the same time.

Intense discussions with the SCU staff and a call to the chief of staff had the arrangements made so Chris could stay. Travis' argument of the need for protection wasn't entirely outrageous. Ezra made the run to Vin's apartment to get Chris fresh clothes and things for Vin, Chris only barely questioning Standish's urge to do something.

It was only a few hours before dawn when Chris found himself stirring from a doze -- finally settling into the uncomfortable chair so he wouldn't accidentally fall asleep and tumble onto Vin. Vin was restless, struggling to wake or escape a nightmare and Chris moved quickly, catching his hand and noting that it was cooler.

"It's all right, Vin. It's okay…you're safe…come on, pard," Chris spoke softly; the SCU was quiet save the hint of machines and the occasional rustle and whisper of the nurses moving among the patients. Blisters of sweat appeared on Vin's face and chest and Chris fumbled with a wet washcloth to cool his skin, wondering if it were the fever breaking or something else. Vin calmed a little and one of the nurses came in, checking him and pointing at the monitor -- 102.8 degrees -- lower than it had been when they'd first pulled Vin from the ambulance hours ago. Chris smiled at her. She brought him a cup of crushed ice, checked the wound sites and left Chris to coax Vin back into wakefulness if he was ready.

It took another hour or so, with Vin almost making it to consciousness only to slip back under uneasily. The constant moistening of his lips prompted Chris to press a wet cloth to them and that, more than his murmured words of comfort, seemed to do the trick.

It took Vin's eyes a long time to focus, his brain longer to process, and Chris was fairly certain that he had both a goofy grin on his face and tears on his cheeks. But Vin's hand had tightened on his and not for anything would Chris have pulled away.

Right up until Vin's eyes closed again and large drops of moisture leaked from under them, a fine tremor racing through him that could almost be shivers but wasn't. Chris eased back onto the bed, stroking his face and throat and the rounded curve of his shoulder. Offered him ice and soothed him.

Eventually, Vin regained some control, which was almost more painful to watch him fight for than watching him lose it. There was no desire to check for an audience as Chris leaned in, brushing his lips lightly over Vin's. "It's over, cowboy. Done. I got you…"

"Waited…" Vin's voice cracked, the raw, rough sound of so soft a word painful to hear. Chris pressed ice chips to the cracked lips and Vin swallowed gratefully. "How long…?"

"Three days," Chris said. "It's Sunday…" He glanced at the wall clock. "Monday."

He might as well have been speaking a foreign language for the recognition Vin gave to the passage of time and Chris couldn't tell from the expression on his face if it seemed longer or less. Vin's eyes searched his face tiredly but what questions he might have had seemed jumbled up and it was no wonder. "Hartman's dead," Chris said finally and saw a flicker of something, relief or anger or just acknowledgement, maybe all three. "Caught them…the guns, from the mine last year. He was moving them out, selling them off. Right under our noses." And hadn't that been the real gut punch to it all. Chris didn't even want to think how close they'd come to missing it entirely, running down fanatics and church bombers and it would have been easy to miss Vin entirely, lose him without knowing it, amid the speculation and theories surrounding the bombings and the multiple avenues of possibility.

The words of a madwoman, a monster, had done more to save Vin than anything Chris had done, and he could only wonder what had driven her, why she'd been there. As a guardian angel she'd left a lot to be desired -- as the hand of someone's vengeance, even her own, she'd been more than adequate.

"She told me…" Vin wasn't looking at him, but up, or maybe looking was the wrong word because Chris was pretty sure there was nothing interesting enough on the ceiling to deserve the intensity of Vin's gaze. "…alive. He told me you…all of you…you…were dead."

"None of us are…we're all here, alive, safe," Chris said, not sure if Vin needed that reassurance.

Vin's gaze shifted, lost focus then regained it. "She told me…waited," he managed before his eyes closed again, but his grip tightened on Chris' hand almost painfully.

Chris took a slow, deep breath, felt the pain in his chest return although he wasn't sure if it were the bruising or something else. He returned the grip, that breath of fear washing through him again. She'd checked up on them, been with Ezra and Josiah, talked to JD, even to Travis. Two days she'd known Vin was alive and where and how badly hurt and she'd been with them. Ignored mostly, or unnoticed, a bright, friendly face, efficient, professional.

He felt sick, physically ill and swallowed heavily against the bile. Buck had noticed, had commented on her bruising. Hurt for her as he would for any woman abused by a man -- her boyfriend she'd said. And that she was dumping him.

Had she gotten off in messing with their heads? Most likely, everything she'd said or done now had another meaning.

But she'd reassured Vin, for her own reasons, told him to hang on in her own way, following her own agenda.

He eased his grip, turning the clasp of their hands so he could hold Vin's hand up close to his chin, stroking along the bandaged wrists with his thumb and mirroring the action with his other hand at Vin's cheek, careful of the swelling. Vin seemed to breathe a little easier after a few moments, and when his eyes opened again, they were clearer, more focused, something sharp and bright and hard reflected in the red-tinged blueness. "He…was going to finish…finish what Juarez…crazier than she was…" His gaze shifted upward again, staring at the ceiling and Chris leaned in, interrupting his line of sight.

"I wouldn't take bets on it, cowboy," he said, not arguing really, or denying that what Vin had been through, half of which he couldn't think about. Not now. Later maybe -- unless he could find a magic pill to make him forget the last three hellish days.

Vin's eyes flickered to his then away, fingers tightening on Chris', that pressure kept up until Chris started to worry, the tension so pronounced Vin was trembling from it. "What is it? Vin?" he prodded, letting his fingers slide through the dirty hair, massaging Vin's scalp. Vin wouldn't speak though, couldn't say it just yet, only relaxed his grip and closed his eyes. He wasn't sleeping though. Now he was too still, barely breathing. But he didn't seem to be in any pain, only distracted, angry or numb; it was hard to tell.

Chris eased his hand down and reached for the bed controls, bring the bed up and Vin's head whipped back, eyes narrowed, unsure what Chris was doing. He grunted softly and Chris stopped the upward motion with Vin almost sitting up. Arms on either side of him, Chris studied his face and saw defiance there.

Glad as he was to see it, he didn't know what it meant. He was having a hard time reading Vin at all. "Talk to me, Vin. Are you mad -- at me, at us for not getting to you sooner?" he asked, dragging through his own thoughts and fleeting fears and frustrations.

Vin sucked in a sharp breath and Chris could only guess that he was partly right, even as denial sprang to Vin's lips. "No. Not…Jesus…" his eyes squeezed close and his lashes were slick and shiny in moments. Chris lifted a hand to stroke over his cheek, rub his thumb across the dry lips. "Did you kill him?"

Not what Chris had expected but he shook his head, even though Vin couldn't see it. "No. I would have, though. Almost. She decided it for me. She hated him…more than I did, I think." He said the last quietly. It was true enough. He'd had the debate within himself in those fractions of seconds, in those moments when Hartman had Vin, had a gun rammed up Vin's ass. It didn't seem possible for Michelle Spencer to have hated Hartman more than Chris did, than Vin could. She'd been with him for months what few witnesses that had survived had said. Mistress, whore, punching bag. There was no reason anyone could find as to why she'd shot the patrolman who was still fighting for his life on the opposite wing and yet held off until there was a figurative army at her doorstep to 'fulfill her contract'.

There had been no hesitation in her. She'd shot Hartman as easily as Chris could clip his fingernails and with about as much concern. She'd put a bullet into the ground close to Vin's head almost without looking. She'd have killed him or Chris with equally as little thought or care, just as she'd shot the cop. Why she'd even bothered to provide Chris with a choice he still didn't understand.

His indecision had nearly crippled him, nearly gotten himself and Vin killed. Why he hadn't shot Hartman the moment his fingers closed over the gun still haunted him.

But she had stepped in, given him the chance he'd blown and for no reason at all that he could see. Neither she nor Hartman held any life but their own of value and Chris wasn't even sure that was true of Michelle. But there he'd been, with a loaded weapon, frozen and afraid while Hartman threatened to blow Vin's brains out the hard way.

The nausea rose up, quick and hard, fear chasing it up his throat and he had to cover his mouth with his hand to keep either from escaping.

It was wrong that Vin pulled him down, using the good arm he had, pulling Chris' head to his shoulder. Wrong that he couldn't be strong here when Vin so needed it.

Or maybe it was just that Chris wanted Vin to need him somehow, in some measure of the way Chris needed Vin. Had he always been this desperate in love? He managed to keep most of his weight off his lover, fighting his own urge to just collapse, hating that the stroke of Vin's fingers through his hair did help in ways that even Buck's hugs had not.

"I thought you were dead," Vin said, so low Chris almost missed it. "I don't know…I didn't know what I was hanging on for. She told me…" he struggled to lift his bandaged arm but Chris slid an arm behind him instead, then the other, pulling Vin close, offering a return of comfort. What did it say about them that Vin had held on because he thought Chris was alive and Chris had held it together because he thought Vin was dead?

He moved the bed again to give Vin more support for his back, held tighter and settled because Vin clutched at him, shaking and shaken. And all Chris could do was hold on, blinking away tears and murmuring inane words of comfort when there wasn't any. "It's over, Vin. It's done… you're safe…I'm here." He almost laughed when he heard his own words echoed back at him in different combinations. Vin finally took a deep, hitching breath and some of the tension left him.

"Folks are gonna talk," he said, a husky former shadow of his voice and Chris pulled back a little and grinned.

"Let 'em." No stopping him now and Vin didn't do anything but murmur appreciatively to find his mouth invaded in a kiss that wasn't chaste and was only just shy of desperate. Let the staff talk. Let them wonder if it wasn't Chris that they need to protect Vin from, rather than the nameless threat of more violence invading their sterile halls. "You should sleep, if you can," Chris prodded, once more letting his thumb rake over Vin's cheek.

"'fraid to close my eyes…" Vin muttered, sounding almost childish.

"Don't be. I'm right here."

Toward dawn, Vin's temperature spiked again and Chris got chased into the area of the nurse's station while they tried to cool him down a bit. He was still there when Ezra showed up and Chris was too tired to even be surprised at the early hour. He was sore too, the aches rising up again without Vin there to occupy all of his attention.

Ezra brought coffee and kept Chris company on the narrow vinyl sofa.

"Did you sleep?"

"About as much as you, I imagine," Ezra said, and he looked it, despite the shower he'd had and the fresh clothes. He was moving stiffly, green eyes a little bloodshot. Chris supposed he didn't look any better with a day's growth of beard and clothes that felt damp as much as from Vin's sweat as his own.

"McCall started sending people home a few hours ago."

"He knows where to find me." Chris rubbed at his chest, trying to ease the pain there.

"The whole bureau knows," Ezra said quietly and it took a moment for that to sink in.

"Right now, I don't give a shit."

"No one thinks you do."

"You trying to tell me something, Standish?"

Ezra shook his head. "Nothing I think you'd care to hear." He glanced up as a nurse left Vin's curtained cubicle.

That was probably more true than Chris was ready to admit just yet. Somewhere in the hours he'd waited for Vin to wake up, he had seriously contemplated turning in his ID at the first opportunity. There was nothing worth this. Nothing worth being the target of madmen who had so much less to lose than he did. He rubbed a hand over his face and scratched at the beard starting to irritate his chin.

"I don't think I could do what you do, Ezra," he said softly after a moment. "What Vin does. On the job."

Ezra was silent for a long time and when Chris glanced over he was leaning back, head against the wall, eyes closed. For a moment Chris thought he was sleeping but then he spoke, carefully.

"You aren't required to. I couldn't do what you do either. I'm not very good at fighting for other people, only for myself. I've gotten better in the past few years. But…" his eyes opened and he looked down, well-manicured hands worrying the rim of his paper coffee cup. "I think if you asked Vin…what he did on the roof, knowing his own danger…he put us first. All of us. Not exactly a prime survival instinct."

"We don't know what happened on the roof."

"We know Vin had a loaded weapon."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying…maybe it's time to admit that you -- we -- don't do this job so much for the common good as we do it to stay together," Ezra said. "And that eventually…the odds are, that's going to cost us in the long run. It almost did twice over. Josiah's not a young man."

And his recovery would be slow. "Neither am I." Not anymore. At the moment, Chris felt like he had ten years on Josiah.

"McCall ordered us to stay back. I followed you."

"I'm not exactly complaining," Chris said on a near growl.

Ezra chuckled at that. "No. Nor am I." He sighed softly and leaned back again. "We do what we do because of who we are, not the other way around. I'm not sure I ever really understood that entirely until…now. This."

"I've never thought of you as being that slow," Chris said gruffly.

A bark of laughter escaped Ezra and he turned his head, grinning. "Thank you, Mr. Larabee." He plucked Chris' empty cup from his hand and got to his feet. "All I'm saying is…who you are won't change if you do something other than this." He carried the cups to the trash.

"Are you thinking I should turn in my resignation?" Chris asked, without heat. He had put other lives, Ezra's included, in harm's way in his need to find Vin. Countermanded orders, broken protocol. McCall was a man of his word. Chris fully expected to be called on it, regardless of whether the operation was considered a success or not.

"Are you thinking of turning in your resignation?" Ezra countered.

"It's crossed my mind," Chris said and Ezra only met his gaze, then looked up as the nurses emerged and pulled the curtain back slightly, indicating they could visit. "Go on…" Chris said. Ezra hadn't come to see him after all.

Or maybe he had because he hesitated, and unreadable expression on his face as he studied Chris for a long moment before entering the curtained room.

Ten minutes later, he got up and checked, staying back, out of both Vin and Ezra's line of sight. Ezra had taken the position Chris had, sitting on the edge of the bed, offering Vin a cup and straw. Vin looked paler than before, washed out and tired, body still fighting the fever. Their voices were too low for Chris to hear and he didn't really want to. He found a nurse who directed him to where family members could shower, stopped in to grab his clothes and let Vin and Ezra know what he was doing and then spent the better part of twenty minutes just standing under the stream of hot water.

His leg throbbed and he ached all over, as he dressed and shaved, found his hands trembling from either too much caffeine, not enough food, fatigue, reaction or some combination of all of them. He was half tempted to lie down on one of the sofas in the waiting room, but he knew, when he went down, he'd go down hard. But the time wasn't too far off when he'd have to or collapse.

Ezra was on his feet when he returned, Vin looked to be resting, maybe even sleeping. "I can stay." Ezra said quietly.

"I'm okay."

"Mmm. You look it," Ezra said drily. "Buck will be here at ten. Get some sleep, Chris." He was closer now, reaching out to grip Chris' arm lightly.

What had Vin said, that he was afraid to sleep. So was Chris. Everything was kind of fuzzy around the edges like a dream, and what if it was?

"Chris?" Ezra sounded more concerned, his grip tightening. Chris tried to pull away, moving toward the bed, needing to touch Vin. "Nurse--"

He made it that far, laying a hand on Vin's blanketed foot. He was real enough, chest rising and falling slowly and evenly.

And suddenly there was something behind his legs and he was falling, or sitting, maybe even floating.

Then he wasn't anything.

(continued...)


	16. Chapters 16 - Epilogue

# Credens Furtiva (Stolen Trust)

  


##  Part III of the "To Make of Heaven, Earth" arc

** by Maygra**

[chapters 16 - epilogue]

##  ~Chapter Sixteen~

** Monday, 12:47 a.m., Denver Memorial Hospital Emergency room**

He knew those ceiling tiles. He squinted to see them, to look for the dark spot. It wasn't there.

"About damn time." A growl near his ear and he turned his head to see Buck, a fierce expression on his friend's face, but the anger he was trying for was totally blown by the glint in his eyes.

"What…this is the emergency room," Chris said, feeling his brain waver between feeling crystal clear and filled with cotton wool. A glimmer of movement and his eyes tracked to the IV line attached to the back of his left hand.

"Yeah, well…" Buck pulled a chair up and sat. "You passed out in Vin's room -- and he's fine," Buck said quickly. "They're running some tests on him. His temp's still up but he's fine. You, on the other hand, my friend, are a mess."

"Ezra."

"I sent him home before he ended up sharing this little luxury suite with you. Nathan is with Vin. JD's up talking to Josiah. We're stretched a little thin, stud."

They were. Pulled tight and stretched to their limits. Chris found it pretty funny that he'd been the one to break first. "What is this?" He lifted the hand with the IV.

"Glucose or something. Your pressure was way up, your blood sugar hit bottom. Doc said taking that hot shower probably finished you off. But at least you smell good."

Chris tried to sit up, only to find Buck a hell of a lot faster. One big hand pressed into the center of his chest, pushing him down and it hurt enough to make Chris hiss, but Buck didn't ease off much. All traces of humor were gone from his face. "Stay put. They want to let the IV finish, and then, if you behave, they'll let me haul your ass back to my place or Ezra's or Vin's and put you to bed. Vin's got lots of good people looking after him. He's pretty out of it anyway -- they want him to rest. A day or so and he's gonna need us more."

"I'm not leaving him here for a day or so." Chris scowled.

"Not asking you to. I'm asking you -- telling you -- to take a few hours and get some real sleep, eat something, and then come back and see him."

"You must be feeling better," Chris groused after a moment.

Buck smiled then, lifted his hand, and sat down heavily. "I feel like shit. But I've had about six hours of sleep and breakfast, and in a minute, I'm gonna go get us both some lunch. Yeah?"

"Yeah," Chris agreed and Buck nodded, getting to his feet again.

"Be nice to the nurses," he warned and limped off.

Chris wasn't nice to them, but he didn't give them any trouble when one came to check his blood pressure and tell him the IV was almost done. The food Buck brought back was nothing special and Chris ate it mostly because Buck still had that look on his face: like he'd force-feed him given half a reason.

He still felt achy when they pulled the IV, and a little light headed when he sat up but he didn't argue as he signed the paperwork, listened to the doctor and followed Buck out of the ER, hoping his good behavior would buy him a concession. Buck went to the elevators and Chris only grinned and shook his head. Buck knew him too well.

The five minutes Buck offered him stretched to ten, but Vin really was asleep, skin warm when Chris kissed him, but he didn't do more than twitch. There was still bloody urine draining from the catheter but Nathan reassured him that it was normal and it was less. On all fronts Vin was doing surprisingly well and even the persistent fever wasn't really alarming the medical staff -- only something they were keeping an eye on.

Chris pressed his luck and took five minutes to check on Josiah, grateful he did because Josiah was already up in a wheelchair, both legs extended in front of him, but grinning like a kid who'd gotten a day pass from school.

But it reminded Chris that they were, as Buck had put it, stretched very thin. Walking wounded, in a manner of speaking. A few days off wasn't going to put his team back together this time.

Buck and Nathan had swapped cars so Buck wouldn't have to deal with the clutch on his truck and by the time they reached the townhouse, Chris was past arguing that he wanted or needed sleep, crashing on Buck's bed and only barely noticing when Buck fell into bed beside him after setting the alarm and putting their cell phones within easy reach.

It was dark when he woke with Buck snoring beside him, but a glance at the clock showed it to be barely past six. He smelled food and heard noises from the kitchen, and followed his nose to find JD unpacking carry out roast chicken and vegetables. JD grinned at him. "Nathan and Buck both told me to make sure we had food…'real' food," he said and got plates for both of them, glancing back toward the bedroom.

"Let him sleep," Chris said and fixed a plate. It smelled amazingly good. "How are you doing?"

"I'm okay…worried," JD admitted, unafraid to show it. "But I saw Vin before I left."

He didn't add anything and Chris glanced over at him before grabbing a soda from the refrigerator. JD knew he was staring. "He was sleeping," he said finally.

"And…"

JD was tearing strips of white meat off the roast in neat little chunks. "Hartman really…they worked Vin over so…"

"Yeah," Chris said softly.

"But Hartman…" JD's hands went still and he looked like he might be ill. "Even for that…bad as they, as he hurt Vin…what she did…."

Chris hadn't seen the reports yet, only the expressions on the faces of those that had gone down the narrow stairs. He wasn't sure he wanted to know -- knew he was glad he hadn't been on the detail that had literally had to pick up the pieces. He pushed the food back and pulled JD away from it, gripping his shoulders. "He didn't deserve that?" he asked and color stained JD's pale cheeks when he nodded.

"I made Nathan tell me…all that he'd done. I wanted to …he deserved something worse than jail or even a quick death…I thought. But I can't…no matter what I think or want to believe, I can't make myself believe he deserved that," JD whispered.

Chris was silent for a moment, imagining what she had done, knowing he could find out, would find out. "Good," he said finally and squeezed JD's shoulder before releasing him. "There's a big difference between justice and vengeance. If you thought any different, you wouldn't be who you are," he said, which sounded trite, but also echoed Ezra's words to him earlier.

It seemed to settle JD though and he nodded. "Thanks." He went back to pulling the chicken apart and Chris thought maybe he understood why JD wasn't using a knife.

Buck woke up when they were halfway through eating, fixing himself a plate and settling on the sofa to eat while the news droned on. The raid got only a passing mention, and Chris figured that the ATF had a pretty hard clamp down on the press. He wasn't even sure of the body count, only that he needed to check on Dan and God knew who else had been injured or killed in the raid. And check in with Travis, if not McCall, surprised he'd seen neither of them, but then again…the follow up to something this big probably meant neither man had gotten much sleep.

He did call and leave Travis a message before leaving for the hospital, made Buck stay put and took Nathan's car. He caught up with Nathan and Ezra outside Vin's room, and learned he had missed McCall by minutes and Travis by a couple of hours.

There were five agents in the hospital including Vin and Josiah. The Denver police officer hadn't made it, one member of the SWAT team was down but expected to recover, along with other assorted injuries to the task force that had been treated and released.

On the other hand, they had recovered the weapons Hartman had been trying to sell, had nabbed three big names in the arms trade and dozen or so other petty criminals and muscles. The body count inside the house had been pretty damn high. It wouldn't be counted among one of the ATF's bigger successes and Chris could only imagine the kind of flack McCall was getting, or how much it might further damage his already threatened position in the Bureau.

And for whatever reason, McCall and Travis both seemed willing to maintain a little distance. There were more DPD uniforms in the lobby, and press vans in the parking lot. The whole thing was turning into a circus despite the best efforts of the hospital, the police, and the ATF to clamp down on it.

Vin slept for most of the time Chris was there, which was well past visiting hours. They'd added something else to his IV, hopefully to help with the still high temperature. When Vin did wake he was almost immediately sick to his stomach despite the lack of food and the nurses were firm about pushing Chris to the hall as Vin spent long minutes fighting painful sounding dry heaves.

When it was over, and they'd administered both a painkiller and something for the nausea, Vin was out and not likely to wake again, the nurses said. Chris almost let Nathan persuade him to take care of himself for the rest of the night and let the staff take care of Vin, but while part of him agreed Vin was safe, he couldn't shake the thought that he'd thought his lover safe on the roof too. He did let Nathan take him over to the federal building to pick up his truck, but he was back at the hospital by midnight, despite his half promises to Nathan and to Buck.

He got some sleep though, claiming one of the recliners in the waiting room and a blanket from a nurse and actually caught another four hours before the change in shifts woke him again. He stayed out of their way and slipped back into the room while they were busy going over notes.

Chris didn't think it possible for Vin to have looked any worse, but he did. What little color had been in his face from the flush of fever had drained out of him in the night, skin almost waxy looking with the thin sheen of sweat that covered it, the bruises on his face and throat looking darker, almost black, only barely starting to go yellow and green at the edges. Lips still swollen from the cut and other blows looked dry and cracked despite the fluids he'd was being given constantly.

And he was still, so still. Chris knew it was the drugs, knew that Vin was so deep under, he was feeling nothing. His breathing was shallow and slow, a slight rasp and rattle as he exhaled, Chris frowning at the sound, even as he reached up to smooth hair off Vin's forehead, swallowing. Leaning over the bed rail, he let his hand rub along one pale and beard roughened cheek. "You're okay, Vin. I'm right here," he said softly, lips inches from Vin's ear.

"Mr. Larabee." It took a moment for Chris to realize someone behind him was speaking. He almost jerked back, but held himself still, pressing his lips To Vin's forehead.

He didn't immediately recognize the doctor from the day before. Or maybe he was the surgeon. Chris honestly didn't know. The doctor beckoned him into the hall, then off to the side. "The nurses said you stayed all night…"

Chris didn't know what to say to that and only shrugged. "His fever's still up."

The doctor nodded then looked uncomfortable. "Mr. Larabee -- I understand Mr. Tanner is your…" he hesitated and Chris could feel his spine clenching a little. "You're his boss. Is there family we should be calling?"

"You're looking at what he's got," Chris said evenly, not sure what the doctor was hedging about, and not sure he was willing to push it -- not yet. "His folks are dead, no sisters or brothers. Something you want to tell them if he had them?" he asked, suddenly seeing another reason for the doctor's hesitancy. "They said the fever wasn't anything to worry about…it's not that high."

"It's not. But it's persisting," the doctor said. "And the why is becoming a concern. We are…discussing the need to take him back into surgery, but…while he's holding his own now, it's risky. Usually we present the options to the family. And I do plan on talking to Mr. Tanner. I've had the nurses ease back on the pain medication."

"You want someone to be there."

The doctor nodded. "We removed a great deal of damaged and necrotic tissue from that leg wound, and he's going to need further surgery, regardless, to repair the muscle damage but…it may be that we're fighting a losing battle with his leg."

Chris had to sit down then, reaching behind him blindly for a chair. "He could still lose his leg."

"We did explain that--"

They probably had, but Chris had been too relieved and too caught up in his own feelings to hear it all. Nathan would know. "I can be here," he said after a moment.

The doctor looked relieved. "Good. It will be a couple of hours before he's ready to discuss this. Are you planning on staying?"

Chris only nodded and after a moment the doctor left him.

Chris didn't move for long minutes, staring at the linoleum, mind entirely blank. Every now and then he would remember that he needed to check in at the office, or call Nathan. And then it would hit him that Vin could lose his leg and what that would mean.

There wasn't any doubt that he'd rather have Vin, one-legged or not, but he wasn't sure how Vin would take it. Suddenly JD's wonder if Hartman deserved what had happened seemed closer to being a resounding "yes", in Chris' mind. It was anger he could do nothing about…but it was there and he took a long walk down the hallway to calm down some before returning to Vin's bedside.

Vin was far more restless, face once more flushed as he came out from under the drugs. Set against the repetitive chirp and whir and hiss of the machines, all Chris could do was bathe his face and arms, murmur quietly at him when Vin's restlessness became more pronounced, and wonder why the doctors weren't doing more.

"Chris…" his name was spoken softly, more to alert than alarm and he turned to see a tired looking Orrin Travis in the doorway. He was dressed down as Chris didn't often see him. Khaki slacks not jeans, but a polo shirt rather than his usual suit and tie. Fatigue dragged at his eyes, the set of his jaw, but his back was still straight, arms loosely at his sides, that near rigid stance that gave hints to the military background Orrin Travis had distinguished himself at thirty years before. Officer, lawyer, eventually a judge, Travis' resume had offered a unique array of skills and discipline to the ATF when they'd began the Special Operations Group program.

Chris started to get up and Travis waved him back down, coming to stand at the foot of Vin's bed, hands resting lightly on the footboard. His hands were as lined as his face, overlarge knuckles indicating the arthritis Travis was fighting with everything in him. So far he was winning. "I tried to call earlier. Your phone is either off or dead."

"Off," Chris supplied, checking it, tossing a glance at the equipment. "I figured those who needed to would know where to find me."

Travis nodded. "I saw the doctor -- surgeon -- as I came in. I need you in the office later today."

"That depends…" Chris said, not outright saying no, but he felt like it.

Travis sighed. "I understand, but it's necessary, Chris."

"The doctor told you what they want to do?"

"He did. And it can wait until he's talked to Mr. Tanner, but…"

Chris looked away, back at Vin. "If this were…if this were Sarah laying here would you ask me to leave?"

"Larabee--"

"If it were Evie, would you leave?" Chris snapped back, facing his boss, a man who had been his friend, his mentor, a man who had stood by and stood up for Chris, and his team more than once.

"I'd do what was necessary," Travis said, no inflection at all in his voice, but the fatigue was lessened by the steel-eyed gaze he gave Chris. "I need you to give McCall a briefing. You can talk fast. It won't be a formal debriefing. I can put that off, but only if McCall has what he needs for ammunition."

Despite himself, Chris found anxiety for someone other than Vin creeping in to take his attention. "What's going on?"

"Hartman…we haven't found the woman. You were the only one there who can tell us anything. The medical reports on what Tanner suffered aren't going to be enough." Travis relaxed fractionally and rubbed a hand across his eyes. "A textbook take-down this wasn't. Right now, our only saving grace is the fact that no civilians were involved. That's gained us some leniency. A hostage agent gained us more, but there's a lot of dead bodies, a lot of guns and one very, very disturbed woman still loose. The DPD wants answers, and for now the FBI is looking for Spencer, but there's some sticky questions. Some of them are procedural," Travis said, keeping his voice low. "Likely to get you a reprimand and a suspension. I know you could care less, but what happened in the basement…"

"I made a choice," Chris said quietly, then found himself grinding his teeth. "Hartman got exactly what he deserved."

"If he has to, McCall will come here, but…give us a little, Chris."

Chris almost demanded it, but he could imagine what McCall was up against, what Travis was up against. It said a lot for what they thought of him and Vin that Travis was here at all.

"Let me get through the talk with the doctor…" Chris said. "But I'm gonna be here when he comes out, Orrin. I'll turn in my gun and my badge if I have to."

"Understood. Just let us know when you are coming in and we'll clear the deck. I can have someone here to sit with Vin. You know Evie would, or Mary. Any of your men."

Chris only nodded then was surprised when Travis moved up along the opposite side of the bed, lightly taking Vin's bandaged hand in his own, his other hand resting on the pale forehead. "Mr. Tanner…Vin; there's a great many people praying for you, son. You just hang in there…we will too," he said quietly, gravelly voice barely above a whisper. He squeezed Vin's hand gently and released him. "Let me know how it goes," he added to Chris and left.

Another hour and Vin was more or less awake, coherent even, as far as it went. The persistent fever was robbing him of strength and diminishing his ability to concentrate, even when the doctor finally showed up with the anesthesiologist. They tried to keep it simple, but Chris was desperately wishing he'd called Nathan. The ramifications, up to and including amputation sounded horrible, even as they tried to reassure them both that it was only exploratory, to see if any bits of debris or cloth or bone fragments had been missed.

Vin tried to pay attention, but it was clear all he heard was that he might lose his leg. "I'm not signing up for that," he said, in a voice that sounded perilously close to breaking. Chris hadn't quite managed to sit on the bed, but he had the rail down, one hand resting on Vin's shoulder. "You can go poke around but…"

"Mr. Tanner, we may not have any choice -- later," Dr. Morgan said. Beside him the anesthesiologist had remained pretty quiet other than explaining the risks involved in taking Vin back under the anesthesia.

"Then we'll deal later. I mean it, doc. I go in again and I want all my parts still here when I get out," Vin said, voice as firm as he could manage and if nothing else both fear and no little hint of anger had brought focus to his gaze.

Morgan looked unhappy, even behind his professional reserve and Chris couldn't help but wonder if it weren't some guilt in not having done a good job the first time. "We could continue the antibiotic course for another 24 hours, but if the infection continues -- you're already showing the first signs of some bronchial congestion, Mr. Tanner. If that gets worse we won't be able to put you under."

"So it could wait?" Chris asked, not so much to put them off as to give Vin some time to think about it.

"We can continue to monitor," Morgan said without much enthusiasm. "His arm is showing no signs of infection yet, but if it spreads…his immune system is already compromised by the fever, by the beginning of the hypothermia he suffered. The fear is, Mr. Tanner, that further infection will increase the loss of muscle tissue you've already suffered. If it gets to the bone, or becomes systemic, this isn't just about saving your leg."

"But you could just look around, right?" Vin asked, voice quieter and Chris squeezed his shoulder.

Morgan admitted they could limit it to exploratory, regardless of what they found.

Even so, Vin wasn't ready to sign anything yet and Dr. Morgan finally acquiesced, saying he would leave the forms with the nurses who would contact him when Vin made up his mind.

When the two physicians left, Vin seemed to collapse back into himself and Chris did sit then, facing him, pushing the dirty hair back and letting his hand rest on Vin's cheek. "You want something for pain?" Chris asked him quietly when Vin seemed disinclined to talk but was restless in a subdued way: a muscle in his jaw jumping and his body tense.

"Yeah…"

Chris reached for the call button and pressed it, waiting until one of the nurses came in. Unlike Josiah, they hadn't fitted Vin with a morphine pump, only administered painkillers through the IV, but they worked quickly and Vin relaxed slightly, closing his eyes under Chris' stroking hand. He was still too warm, and unless Chris was misreading the monitors his temperature was climbing again. Somewhere, Chris remembered reading that a fever was a body's way of fighting infection. That he and Sarah had constantly worried when Adam was sick and his temperature would rise, only to be reassured by their pediatrician, that unless it was alarmingly high and persistent, Tylenol and cool baths were as good as a doctor's visit.

Still the bandages around Vin's chest were soaked with sweat and despite the fact he was getting fluids and able to keep ice water and some ginger ale down, he seemed to be sweating away what strength he had left.

It seemed a lot longer than the actual ten or so minutes that passed before Vin opened his eyes and fixed them on Chris. "What do you think? Guess this ain't my decision alone…" he added more quietly, fatigue haunting the realization in his eyes.

It was Vin's decision but Chris knew what he meant. He caught up the uninjured hand and held it. "The infection could kill you, Vin," he said finally, his own voice rough. "We don't need Nathan to tell us that. Or a doctor. You've been through hell -- but come back." To me… Chris added silently. "I'm not willing to take any chances, but that's all we have. Let 'em do what they need to."

Vin swallowed and looked away, looking back when Chris released his hand but braced his arms on either side of Vin to lean close. "I want all thirty years, Tanner. All of them…and then some."

"Even one-legged and crippled?" Vin shot back, without force but with some anger -- or fear that was well hidden.

"One legged. One armed. Blind…" Chris said, trying for humor and failing. He let his head drop. "I thought I was too late, Vin. Thought you were dead when the building blew up…two days. I lost you once. Close to it more than once. Ask me to choose, and it's gonna be you breathing, no matter what," he said, his own voice close to breaking.

Vin lifted his arm, gripping Chris' forearm, thumb rubbing lightly along the paler skin of his inner arm. "Didn't want that for you…" he said, softly. "Came to…half hoping, praying that it was done, that you weren't…waiting for me, thinking the worst…Jesus, Chris…"

"I did. You did. We made it through, Vin. Don't blow it now," Chris whispered, and bent low, mindful of Vin's stitches, ignoring the metallic, medicinal taste of Vin's mouth, one hand curling into the matted hair to lift Vin's head slightly. His lips were warm and dry, his skin hot to touch. And the small sound he made as he readily gave himself up to Chris' kiss could have been a moan or a sob.

Vin was scared, plain and simple and who wouldn't be? Chris himself was terrified to have to wait through another hour or two of Vin under the knife, or at least under anesthesia. What faith he had was stretched thin, but still there because Vin was still here.

Vin signed the papers illegibly, but even in doing it, it was like some weight was lifted off him and he was asleep long before they came to prep him for surgery. Chris made the call and not surprisingly it was Nathan who showed up to keep vigil. Buck, JD and Ezra would meet him at the office and all of them planned on returning here.

Even striding down the corridors he knew so well, Chris felt detached, ached body and soul. He checked his phone repeatedly to make sure it was charged and working. He met Ezra coming out of McCall's office, taking in the man's guarded stance.

"I gave him the truth, no hedging," Ezra said, as if it needed to be said and Chris frowned at that, Ezra watching him as if he expected something else.

"I think our procedural missteps are the least of McCall's worries," Chris said after a moment. He wasn't planning on hanging himself or anybody else out to dry.

"I wouldn't be too sure of that."

"Ez…" Chris had to swallow against the thickness in his throat even as he thought about it. "There wasn't a man or woman on that team, including McCall, who didn't have getting Vin out as their primary focus."

"Which would be why they are calling in another outside review. McCall Just told me. Jay Randall will be back here tomorrow."

Chris should have been surprised, but he wasn't. It made sense, although he had to wonder why those above Randall and McCall weren't already calling the shots. Maybe they were.

"Travis said this is informal." Chris wondered if he should be worried, then decided he didn't care even before Ezra spoke again. Short of criminal charges, he didn't much care what the Bureau lobbed at him, and somehow he didn't think McCall would be going for that or even thinking it.

"It's not an inquiry yet," Ezra said but he looked uneasy. "But it will be. It's too big not to take that route, regardless of outcome."

True enough, and Chris gripped his good shoulder briefly. "I won't be long," he said and stepped inside.

It looked informal anyway. Despite it being a weekday, McCall was in jeans and an ATF long sleeved t-shirt. As with Travis, he was showing his age. This had been easy on none of them. The only other person in the room was his adjunct who might as well have been an admin save that Rico Hernandez was as fully qualified in the field as any other agent.

McCall's office was easily twice the size of Travis', but it looked small even with its own lengthy conference table. There were case files and printouts covering most available spaces, and even the far more casual sitting area that boasted armchairs in worn leather was barely usable.

"Chris…" McCall greeted him, rising only enough to shake his hand before settling again. "How's Tanner?"

"Back in surgery," Chris said, not really intending to sound so hostile. Whatever else he was, Lawrence McCall was not his enemy. And the man probably already knew Vin was in surgery. "He's holding on," he amended. "Scared they're going to take his leg."

McCall nodded, looking pained, then seemed to clear his mind. "We'll make this fast. This isn't an official inquiry. Rico's going to take notes -- point facts. You'll have to make a more formal statement later, but right now, I need to know what went down, inside and outside of the estate so I can formulate a preliminary report. My report will shape the more formal inquiry, and be clear, Larabee, if you handed in your badge to me right this second, there would be a subpoena out this afternoon."

That took Chris by surprise. It was no idle threat and Travis had obviously given McCall a heads up on Chris' mental state. "Understood, sir," he said.

"Good. Start from when you were ordered to scout the east side."

It was grueling in its own way, despite the fact that McCall rarely interrupted him. Hernandez got up to get him water once, taking signals from McCall on what he wanted recorded and what he merely wanted to hear. His no-nonsense approach allowed Chris to remain somewhat detached up until he started on the recitation of the events in the cellar.

McCall wasn't impassive, and Hernandez looked a little nauseated but kept it to himself -- easy to ignore and Chris reminded himself to watch for that with McCall's adjunct. The man faded into the background as easily as Vin did.

"Standish says he never saw the woman until she took her shot at him."

"She knew the house, sir. She probably knew where Hartman was. Ezra would have covered Allison and Dan until they got out."

"Leaving you--"

"Doing what needed to be done," Chris said sharply and shook his head. "It happened fast. I couldn't have been downstairs more than five or ten minutes, and Hartman…I probably should have taken someone but…" Chris got up suddenly, turning toward the windows and taking a deep breath before glancing back, eyeing Hernandez for a long moment. "I wasn't leaving there without Agent Tanner."

"I'm not asking you defend why, Chris," McCall said quietly and paused. "Rico, why don't you go get us some coffee, hmm?" he said and Hernandez didn't even bat an eye, just went, closing the door behind him. "Keeping your relationship with Tanner out of this isn't going to be at the top of my priority list, but it is there. Was there any chance, any way, you could have gotten out of there without leaving Hartman to Spencer?"

Chris rolled his shoulders and rubbed his neck before coming back to sit. "I thought about going back after I had Vin into the wine cellar. I had my gun. I could hear him -- Hartman -- screaming. Maybe I could have got a shot off…but…" He leaned forward. "I stopped thinking about it. My only reason for going back would have been to kill both of them. I'd have had to, I think. If I could have. I had every reason to think…or thought I did, that Spencer really didn't care if Vin or I lived or died. We were in her way. She'd have killed Vin if I'd tried to take Hartman. She wanted him that badly."

"Apparently. You know what happened?"

"Only peripherally…they told me. She did a number on him," Chris said.

McCall was quiet for a long moment before leaning back in his chair. "I've seen a lot in my years. This is something I could have gone to my grave without seeing. I've recommended counseling for some of your men -- those that went downstairs. Wilmington, Dunne…you knew though."

Chris swallowed and nodded. "I knew she didn't just plan to kill him. She could have done that before I could have stopped her. I didn't even know she was there until she had a gun at Vin's head. And Hartman was afraid. I think he knew what she was capable of."

McCall pulled a folder out of the pile and pushed it across his desk. "I'm not ordering you to look. It's pretty gruesome. And it's done. I'm not trying to make you second guess yourself, Larabee. But they will at the inquiry and there will be one."

"I made the choice. I'd do it again."

"I know," McCall said quietly and Chris met his eyes for a long moment, seeing both regret and understanding there. He took a breath and reached for the folder only to find McCall's hand pressing it closed. "Before you look -- if you look -- I think you did the right thing. The inquiry board will challenge that. I'm going to suspend you for all the reasons they would. Standish and Jackson as well. A week each. You're off for a month, but expect it to be extended. Somehow…I think you may be able to work that to your advantage. And Tanner's," McCall said and removed his hand.

Chris looked up in surprise but McCall had a phone in his hand, calling his secretary to set up his next appointment.

He'd expected the reprimands. Ezra had too, possibly even Nathan and that one would cut harder because Nathan's record was pretty much flawless up until now, but he doubted the man would worry it over much. Nor would the agents from the other teams that had followed Chris' lead into the house.

And some of them had seen this, in living color, Chris thought as he opened the folder -- a forensics report, complete with pictures. He only made it to the third when he had to close it and get up or be sick.

Hernandez chose that moment to return, delivering coffee as ordered and taking up his position at McCall's side again.

Chris let the strong coffee burn his throat, chasing away the taste of bile. He understood now, what McCall meant, what tact the Commander would take in the inquiry. Michelle Spencer had been with Vin in that nightmare of a house, along with Hartman. There was no doubt that Vin had been tortured, and the forensic report on Hartman's remains would only further the cause that an agent had been at high risk. It would make a difference. Procedures and protocols be damned, Hartman was guilty as sin despite a lack of conviction. Enough muscle and buyers had survived to be clear on that point. And Michelle Spencer, whoever or whatever she was, had been party to it. Willingly.

He turned back, ignoring the pictures but pulling out the report itself -- far easier to read than to see, but his eyes narrowed and he was all too aware that McCall was watching him now. He read it twice to make sure he wasn't seeing things, recognizing among the general description of the mutilation and dismemberment, some very specific things. There had been method to her madness.

Tanner was the last, not the first. Chris had had it then, the connection but he was finding it difficult to wrap his mind around the idea that Luis Gonzales had engineered this. "Gonzales."

"Maybe. Maybe one of the other victims. The FBI has it," McCall said, unsurprised at Chris' train of thought. "There's already undercover agents at the hospital, but I think she's finished with us."

Or not. She'd come after Ezra. Not to kill him but to keep a promise to a man she'd just castrated and disemboweled. Who knew what other promises she had to fulfill? "We done?"

McCall nodded. "I know you've got other concerns, Larabee, but get me a report. Randall will be here tomorrow. Bill Hilliard from Washington is on his way as well."

They had called in the big guns and Chris suddenly realized more than his job was on the line. "Are they after you? The program?"

"Probably. Not the first time. Not yours to worry about, Larabee. Don't lose sight of what's important."

"Sir," Chris said with all the respect he could put into a single word.

"I'll try to stop by and see Tanner later. Give him my best," McCall said and it was over. As over as it could be for the time being.

Chris left feeling both relieved and strangely tense. Not just the threat of Spencer -- out there like the sword of Damocles, but because it might no longer be a matter of turning in his badge. If Randall wanted to deconstruct the Special Operations Group program and rebuild it in his own image, there wouldn't be a place for Chris anyway -- not one that he could stand.

Maybe not for the rest of the team either.

All of whom were waiting for him in their offices -- well most of them. Buck took one look at his face and relaxed almost imperceptibly, only Chris knew him too well. No suspension there, nor for JD. Josiah and Vin would be laid up for awhile, Ezra and Nathan out for a week, possibly more. Buck could rightfully claim time off -- sick time to recover. He wouldn't pass a physical at the moment.

And JD…who looked both resolute and worried. Travis would find something to keep him occupied if JD didn't want to actually take time off. "I'm headed back to the hospital," he said, as if there were any doubt. "Looks like most of us are due some time off and not for good behavior," he added and grinned when Buck laughed.

"That would be different though, wouldn't it?" Buck asked, easing himself to his feet with a hand on JD's shoulder.

"We shall endeavor to practice," Ezra said and they all started moving toward the elevators.

"What? We didn't do anything wrong!" JD said.

Chris only smiled grimly at that. "Yeah, we did, JD. But for all the right reasons," he said squeezing the younger man's shoulder.

"Damn straight," Buck said as the elevator opened.

"Who we are," Ezra said quietly. "Demands no less."

Chris met his gaze and found it steady. "Sometimes it demands more," he said and found himself returning Ezra's grin. He kept his own smile all the away to the parking garage. Sometimes it demanded the impossible.

##  ~ Chapter Seventeen ~

** 11:45 a.m., Sisters of Mercy Hospital Outpatient Center.  
(47 days post combined SOG operations )**

"Come on, Vin, give me five more. You're doing great."

One more felt damn near impossible. Vin's palms were slick and the trickle of sweat between his shoulder blades irritating and distracting as he forced the 55 pound weight to rise again, the muscles of his thigh trembling and burning like the wound would rip open gain.

It wouldn't though. Paul Morgan might be a sadist of sorts but he seemed to know his shit, and the strength in Vin's leg had steadily improved over the past few weeks under his careful therapy. Some days the fact that Paul seemed to have spent a former life as a cheerleader was a blessing; today though, Vin was ready to slap the bright, encouraging smile off his handsome face and tell him what he could do with his weights.

Obligingly, the stacked weights rose, the leg protesting, Vin's jaw clenched so tight his neck hurt. He wouldn't look at his leg, didn't need to to see what was left of his thigh muscles quivering. Didn't want to in case the wetness trickling across his leg and dampening the edge of his shorts was blood and not sweat.

His eyes flicked to Chris' face then away again at the mouthed "come on," from Chris. Just enough to make sure there was no alarm there. There wasn't. Understanding though, maybe. As if anyone could know what this felt like, how it burned and ached.

And Paul was still grinning at him as he made it through one more, then two, seeming unconcerned about Vin's pain, or maybe just sure Vin could work through it, survive it.

Or maybe he got off on it like Michelle Spencer had

The weights slammed back down, Vin grunting as the muscles gave up, eyes clenched tightly shut, even as he felt Paul's big hand wrap around his ankle to ease the sudden twitch and spasm in his leg. "Easy, Vin. Easy. Take a breath " Paul said, just as cheerfully reassuring. Gentle. Massaging the spasm away skillfully. "You did great."

Yeah, great. Ten pounds more and half as many reps as he'd done the day before.

"It's okay now," he ground out, opening his eyes and pulling his leg back, out from under the padded ankle rest, and Paul's hand obligingly moved away, touching him no longer than was necessary. The man had gotten better at judging that over the last few weeks. Enough to guide or demonstrate, or to do as he had just now to ease the spasms as the weakened muscle that remained tried to compensate for what had been lost.

Chris switched places with the therapist as Paul picked up Vin's chart to make notes. Chris handed Vin the small towel first so he could wipe his face and hands, then the water bottle, still icy in its little foam wrap.

Chris offered a hand and Vin took it, sitting up. Chris hovered, ready to keep the overtaxed leg from jerking or just buckling as Vin put weight on it to stand up. He was favoring his bad leg -- he always did, especially without the crutches -- and Chris only moved beside him to help steady him as they moved away from the leg press and back to the raised exercise mat.

It had become a familiar dance and Vin tolerated Chris' supportive hand only slightly longer than Paul's. Enough to cross the room and sit, waiting for Paul to come start the stretching that always followed the weight work. They did the same routine at home. Did it here under Paul's watchful eye to make sure neither Chris nor Vin went too far in their eagerness to reach some kind of recovery.

Once he was sitting though, Chris gave him space, not touching him, giving Vin the time he needed to steel himself against the next round of therapy, the next round of hands being laid on him that he couldn't fight off.

Or he could, but didn't, which in its own way took more effort than anything else. The Rehabilitation Services department at Mercy was as unlike his little dark prison as anything could be: high-ceilinged, bright, cheerfully painted. The facility offered patients physical and occupational therapy; speech therapy too if they needed it. The area was huge and Vin was by no means the only person there on any given day, no matter how early or late the appointment. Other patients worked with therapists of their own, relearning to walk, to balance, to feed themselves. Some were here for pain management or massages, ultrasound and hot packs. Some were kids and Vin found himself surreptitiously watching the sixteen-year-old girl who was learning to walk with a prosthetic leg. She'd lost the other in a car accident and was taking her disability with a whole lot more grace and cheerfulness than he was, too glad to be able to walk at all to spend too much time railing against her loss.

At least here she didn't. Vin watched her, but he'd never asked Paul anything about her other than what had happened. Didn't want to know.

But he did, of course. Her mother came with her. Sometimes her father, both of them showing the fear and loss Jenny didn't -- and as impressed by her recovery and adaptability as Vin was. Finishing the whole length of the parallel bars with her therapist only walking behind her, she quite proudly caught her mother's hands to turn and make her way back again, collecting a hug as if it were the only reward she needed.

Vin looked away and took a long pull from the water bottle, then let his eyes drop to the mesh socking that covered the clear patch bandage on his thigh. Mostly it was there to keep sweat from pooling under the edges of the bandage. Vin liked it because he didn't have to see the still healing wound. He let Chris do that, every morning before they came in: strip the old bandage off where it would inevitably peel while he slept. Clean it out, bandage it again, cover it with the socking, pull on his sweat pants. Off they'd go. Once here he'd have to strip down to shorts the better for Paul to pull the bandage from the wound again and later so he could sit in the whirlpool to let the betadine and whatever other crap Paul put in the water work their magic at continuing to keep it infection free and clear of dead tissue.

Objectively, Vin knew it was getting better; the wound site smaller than it had been a few weeks ago. The flesh around it pinker and healthier looking than it had been when he'd been released from the hospital. It still looked like someone had taken an ice cream scoop to dig out the flesh of his leg, though. A huge depression of gouged flesh and barely sheathed muscle from the underside of his thigh near his groin to almost the top of it. The bullet had left a tear no wider than the width of his hand turned sideways. Infection had added twice that. It was awkward as hell to treat and clean, especially at home where the only way Chris could make sure he got the whole thing cleaned properly was for Vin to lie on his side with his good leg either bent or laying across Chris' shoulder.

It was as intimate as they'd gotten since before he'd been rescued.

Josiah beat him out of the hospital by nearly a week, triumphant on crutches and a walking cast, although he'd still had a couple of weeks of sitting in wheelchair staring him in the face. The whole team had gone to put in temporary ramps and railings, rearranged Josiah's room to make sure getting to the bathroom or to the kitchen would be easier for the big man. Then they'd turned around and made similar adjustments to Chris' house. Offered to do the apartment too, but Vin didn't see himself hiking those stairs anytime soon.

The second surgery had done a better job of cleaning out the infection in Vin's leg, but even so it took him another four days to shake off the fever and persistent weakness. Chris had been there when he finally escaped the clutches of the anesthesia, had reassured Vin over and over that his leg was still there until Vin was actually aware enough not only to remember, but to see his leg. Even wiggle his toes.

That had been about all he'd been capable of for another week. A different therapist than Paul had come up twice a day, to do some passive exercises on both his leg and arm, and Chris was there every minute: it seemed as if Chris never left him, but it wasn't really true, Vin had only failed to mark the time when Chris wasn't there. Aside from the therapy, Vin had been bed bound and suffered both bedpans and a catheter until the wound healed enough for the doctors to risk him putting weight on it.

Chris hadn't been there the first time they hauled him upright and Vin was just as glad -- he'd been weak as a kitten, nearly ended up on his ass and only his therapist and the walking belt around his waist had kept him from checking on how clean the hospital floors were.

But when Chris came by in the afternoon to stay the night, Vin was sitting up in a chair.

Despite exhaustion and a persistent nausea, Vin still hadn't been able to resist that smile. Hadn't really tried.

He hadn't seen much of it since then, but that wasn't Chris' fault.

Two days after he'd achieved the vertical, he was well enough to actually get a real shower. Granted, he had to sit and suffer the assistance of an orderly to get clean and he was so wiped out afterward he slept for almost twenty-four hours straight. But he slept with only the minimal assistance of drugs and wasn't dogged by the nightmares he half-feared would follow him.

It was nearly the only blessing he could claim, because his waking hours were haunted by less kind phantoms. Despite persistent pain and fatigue that left him aching, he couldn't shut the memories out when he was awake. He could pacify them when he had company, but they nagged at him and it was the memories rather than the slow recovery that had him snappish and easily aggravated even with the most welcome of company.

Once they had him up and walking in the confines of his room, Vin had stopped Chris from staying every night. He wasn't sleeping well even with the extra cot in the room, and he looked as tired and drawn out as Vin felt. It was ridiculous for both of them to be stretched so thin and Vin had been adamant, if not downright snarling. Chris bridled a little, but seemed to understand, not blaming himself. Not for Vin's moods anyway.

In retrospect, Vin wasn't sure it had been such a good idea. Without Chris there, he had too much time to himself in the night to think. Too many times when he really wanted Chris to be there even if he was sleeping. But he wasn't there and Vin had only himself to blame. He could have asked Chris to come back. Even just every other night. He had been there every day, bringing breakfast or dinner or sometimes both. Brought clean clothes and news. Stayed through the therapy and consultations. Kept Vin up with what was going on outside his four walls and a window.

He'd have offered more than just the kisses on greeting and parting too, had Vin asked, or given him any encouragement at all. But Vin hadn't and even so, Chris would sit on the edge of Vin's bed while they watched ESPN or whatever the movie was on the limited channels available in the hospital. Held his hand.

Until he noticed that Vin would pull his hand away every time someone else came into the room. They came in a lot and, after a week or so, he stopped reaching for Vin's hand.

Vin could have that back too for the asking, but as with the overnight visits, he didn't. Couldn't. And he wasn't entirely sure why, because seeing Chris every day was about the only thing he had looked forward to. Seeing the other guys was good too, other visitors, neighbors from his apartment building. Other agents. But it was Chris he'd listened for in the mornings, Chris the only one his silences didn't bother. Buck and JD and even Ezra would be full of chatter, nothing of consequence. Just noise to fill the quiet and he'd appreciated it. Chris was more likely to be quiet as well, the conversations wandering, but not awkward, and he'd appreciated that too.

Appreciated it more when Chris ran interference for him with the Bureau, which he did, until he couldn't any longer.

Travis offered to put off Vin's formal report for as long as possible, but after three weeks, Vin wanted it over with. It took two days and Travis himself took the verbal report with a tape recorder. Chris was allowed to be there and he quite visibly fought repeatedly not to break in while Vin recounted everything from his capture on the roof until Chris had shown up in the cellar. Vin found Chris' pacing and the scowls that so frequently marred his face to be oddly reassuring.

He was even more grateful that Chris opted to stay those nights without him asking, not that either of them got much sleep. But when Chris did ask on the third day if he wanted him to stay, Vin said 'no'. He wasn't sure which of them was more grateful. Nights were just harder to be together but apart. Better to be apart all the way since the other option wasn't possible.

He missed the more formal inquiry, even though two members of the review board showed up to go over some key points. But Jay Randall wasn't one of them and Chris was allowed to stay, even though he kept a more physical distance. Later he gave Vin the short version of the actual inquiry.

The formal inquiry was hellish, but neither Jay Randall nor Bill Hilliard made any official reference at all to the rumored relationship between Team 7's Senior Agent and the Team Specialist. It pissed Chris off that Vin was hardly referred to by name at all, as if the review board could distance themselves from the operation by keeping the participants as anonymous as possible.

Lawrence McCall didn't let them play that game very long, making it a point to remind the board -- who were there to examine his actions as well as those under his command -- that the lives they were talking about weren't statistics for the Human Resources office to chew over, nor were the SOG teams made up of unthinking, unquestioning drones.

Then Chris was out of it. He gave a nearly identical recount of the events in the basement to the review board as he had given to McCall. It didn't get any better with the retelling but at least he got through it without wanting to throw up.

Which was more than could be said for Bill Hilliard when the forensics photos were laid out. Chris only heard about it; that they'd had to recess for the better part of two hours that it had been a lot of years since Hilliard had seen any kind of field work.

It was another two weeks before the final set of reprimands came down. Nathan and Ezra were already back on the job, Buck as well, although still confined to desk duty. Chris took his three months without blinking, laughing out loud when Travis managed to tack on half of it in short term disability. Not that Chris would have been hurting for the money, but it was an end run no one expected and yet another signal that Orrin Travis didn't let his teams hang out there with no back up no matter who demanded it.

There would be shake ups in the command structure though -- some Jay Randall balked at, but with more regional groups being brought on, the senior commanders wouldn't be allowed to operate with complete autonomy any longer. McCall didn't challenge it to the surprise of many.

Travis had warned Chris quietly that McCall would be announcing his retirement before the end of the year.

It gave Vin pause for thought, but not for long. It was too far away and after weeks of close watching and intense therapy, he was released two days after the inquiry was wrapped up. He could only wonder if McCall or Travis or both hadn't pulled some strings on that as well. He'd been on crutches for a few days, going to therapy twice a day, which was grueling but Vin gave it everything he had, even when avoiding looking at the damage done to his leg. There would be no avoiding the scarring and even with therapy, the doctors couldn't promise him he'd ever regain the musculature to pass the Bureau's physical to be able to return to fieldwork.

Vin still wasn't sure how he felt about that. He had a great deal of time to think, both about being the target for Hartman's revenge and about his own doubts of being able to continue doing the job he'd been hired to do, even if he weren't injured.

It shamed him a little to be half hoping he wouldn't have to make the decision. Unlike when he'd been Chen Juarez's victim of choice, Vin had few blanks spots of the time he'd spent as Anthony Hartman's prisoner. He remembered far more of Chris' presence than Chris had thought him aware of, including Chris threatening to shoot Hartman through Vin.

He probably should have said something to Chris before he spilled that bit of information into Travis' tape recorder, but it was out, done. And after Travis left Chris had been equal parts apologetic and angry.

Angry at himself, for all that he tried to keep it from spilling over.

"I couldn't do it. I could order you to do it," Chris said, in that tight, tense voice that made Vin's chest hurt.

"It ain't the same." Vin tried to reassure him, but he knew it was more than half a lie. Hadn't he questioned the same thing? "The only life you were trying to save was mine, Chris. Saving your own. I knew it then. I know it now."

"I wouldn't have missed."

"At that range, cowboy, you'd have had to work hard *to* miss," Vin said.

Chris had whipped his head around, anger making his eyes shine. Or maybe not all anger. "It's not a joke."

"I'm not taking it as one," Vin said evenly, almost flatly. "He had a gun up my ass, Chris. Your way would have been cleaner."

Chris had gone pale then and Vin had moved, afraid his lover would pass out -- or bolt. He'd had to fumble for the crutches though and swore, not quite making it before Chris was there, pulling the crutches from his hands and settling on the bed beside him. "Not for me Jesus, Vin. I wasn't thinking about you at all."

"I don't believe that," Vin said and he didn't. Not for a second. Chris had descended into that snake-pit with no back-up. He sure as hell hadn't been thinking of himself. But it wasn't that easy. It never would be and once more Vin thought it might be better to be rostered out on a disability than have to put himself or Chris through this again. It was getting harder to keep themselves straight on the job, and the next time, it might not be him or Chris that suffered for it.

Chris had lifted Vin's hand, studying his fingers and the fading marks at his wrist. He pressed his lips to the abraded flesh there before getting up and helping Vin swing his legs back up on the bed. "I'm gonna take a walk," he said and kissed him.

He was running. Vin knew it, and Chris knew he knew it. Vin was pretty damn close to running himself if he could do more than shuffle ten feet before needing to sit down. It took Chris nearly an hour to return but he brought lunch and they talked about a breeding farm Chris had found that would have two year olds up for sale by the fall.

Mandatory counseling was on the books for Vin, and he half thought Chris ought to do it as well, but wasn't sure how to broach the subject. It worried him, how much of the blame Chris was taking -- like he could have predicted any of it. Sometimes, Larabee's urge to rise to his own press was a serious pain in the ass. For Vin, the counseling felt a little unreal. He was clear on the reasons -- the Bureau was quite willing to treat PTSD as a legitimate risk to its agents and he supposed that he should be grateful that they at least extended the benefit of a doubt that he'd be able to return to work, if he chose to. If he were physically able to.

The bureau psychologist was pretty deft at probing to see if Vin found any action of his own to be blameworthy. It would have pissed him off a year earlier. Had, in fact. Maybe because it had been closer to true. He had liked Chen Juarez in a general sort of way, even knowing what the man was, where his illegal activities had led him. The same wasn't true of Hartman. The man had damn near killed Chris, would have let him die -- all of them -- in that mine, upcountry. And again, three weeks ago, trying to drop an overpass on them.

"According to your report, he nearly killed you too, assisting Juarez," she, Dr. Caplan, had pointed out.

"I didn't know it then."

"But you know it now. Agent Tanner -- Vin. This assessment is confidential, the details." She'd told him that more than once and Vin knew why, but he wasn't quite ready to admit to his relationship with Chris in any kind of official capacity -- confidential or not.

"I'm glad the son of a bitch is dead," Vin said. "If I could have killed him myself, I would have."

Caplan didn't blink, nor make a note, but she did change the subject to how his recovery was going. Vin was under no illusions that the topic was closed.

The rest of it had just been slow and tedious. Painful in a constant way, but he actually could see -- and feel -- improvement despite chafing under the need to remain in the hospital even after he was on his feet. Twice his temperature spiked after therapy and while Dr. Morgan was no longer his physician once further surgery was ruled out, the new doctor was the cautious type. It wasn't until he started gaining weight again that the doctor set a release date, and that had more to do with the food his teammate were sneaking in then the food the hospital was giving him. Buck, JD and even Ezra made it a point to never visit without bags or containers of the best Denver's take-out establishments had to offer.

There wasn't any doubt he'd be going to the ranch. Chris had been spending most nights at the apartment for convenience's sake but he made it out to the ranch every day to check on the horses, or maybe just to have some time to himself. Chris returned to the hospital every morning and most evenings until the nurses -- or Vin -- chased him off. Vin was pretty sure the enforced separation was harder on Chris. Most nights Vin was asleep within minutes of Chris leaving.

The day before Vin's release, the press finally broke a heavily edited version of the story. Speculation had been pretty rife over the past few weeks, but without much support, by the time it did break, it was practically old news. Still, Vin was glad his name wasn't in it. McCall's was, though, and Travis. Hints of a cover up, of misdirection, although from what Vin read, they weren't hiding much but the gory details. Interviews with the building owner, the surviving tenants, even the small church publisher, all got their print time, their fifteen minutes of fame. Good Book Ministries reported a surge in donations after the story broke.

Vin might have appreciated the irony had it not reawakened doubts that felt older than he was.

Coming home was almost anti-climactic. He wasn't surprised by the party, or the presence of his teammates and friends. He and Josiah compared crutch-styles until Chris threatened to kick the ass of the first person that suggested a race. All in all it was the most normal Vin had felt in weeks. It was also the last time he felt normal for nearly as long.

Pillows propped under his leg made sleeping with Chris awkward but it was far better than sleeping alone. They hadn't done, nor had Vin been capable of, much more than that. He and Chris had talked far into the first night about nothing of importance, avoiding the hard topics, but not willing to ignore each other. Vin lay awake a long time after Chris finally fell asleep, fingers idly rubbing patterns into Chris' arm where it lay across his stomach, counting the soft breaths that left his shoulder warm and moist. He was exhausted; the fatigue that plagued him hadn't dissipated much at all even with the rush of adrenaline and excitement that he'd found being home again. Home had happened while he was in the hospital, the questions from before the op fading as he fixed his hopes and his determination on making it back to the ranch, to this bed and to Chris, no matter what else happened. Having accomplished that much, though, setting his eye on the goal, any goal, got increasingly more difficult

The rest of it nagged at him, in the dim hours between midnight and dawn and when he finally did drop off he was restless, waking to Chris' voice soothing him out of a nightmare he couldn't remember. The first of many. Nightmares that hadn't plagued him in the hospital suddenly seemed to have just been waiting for him to let his guard down.

If he'd been tired in the hospital with his therapy and test, being home was doubly difficult. Chris drove him into town for therapy every day and stayed most days, then drove him back, at which point Vin would collapse and sleep for most of the afternoon until Chris woke him for dinner.

At any other time in his life, Vin might have bridled against the restrictions put on him because of his injuries. The crutches frustrated him but only because, with both his arm and his leg healing, moving more than the few feet from bedroom to bath to kitchen to living room, or making his way from the porch to the truck left him not only tired but hurting. Having the leg wound cleaned and dressed twice a day was painful too, and Vin had stopped looking after the third therapy visit.

But Chris never averted his eyes. Had even pulled on gloves to help, wanting to be ready when it was no longer necessary for the medical staff to do it. A couple of times under the therapist's watchful eye and he'd been as good at it as Nathan would be. Vin was grateful Chris didn't feel it necessary to tell him of the progress. He knew there was progress, knew when the ends of the wound started to seal up with the persistent itch and pull of scabbing and skin trying to breach the gap left in his flesh. The largest part of it was still tender to the sides, making anything but sweatpants or sweats unbearable to wear. Having someone place a hand on his upper thigh to work the antibiotic and moisturizing cream into the wound made him want to strike out, or pull away and the smell of alcohol made him want to vomit. He didn't dare close his eyes through any of it, afraid of what he might see replayed in the darkened theatre of his mind. It was marginally better to have Chris peel the bandages back and apply the saline wash and betadine to the raw meat that was his inner thigh, but only marginally and Vin still flinched every time he did it.

But he wasn't flinching from pain.

He thought he understood it, but since he wouldn't talk to the psychologist about him and Chris, he couldn't talk to her about his increased reluctance to be touched in anything but the most passive of ways, either. His arm was less of a problem in the bandaging department, but in some ways worse for pain because he couldn't *not* use it if he wanted to be mobile. He'd torn muscles and ligaments there too, even apart from the bullet crease, forced to hold a position and his won weight too long. The idea of even lifting a rifle to that shoulder made Vin break out in a cold sweat -- but he wasn't entirely sure that was because of the pain either.

Chris seemed not to notice, but Vin knew him too well. Knew every time he hesitated a fraction of a second. Knew too well that in bed at night Chris waited for Vin to reach for him first rather than just rolling over and settling against him. Was torn between being grateful and ashamed that Chris was giving him the space and time without being asked to do so. Hated that he had to force himself to offer a few close embraces and that while Chris' kisses in the hospital had reassured them that both love and desire were still present, since coming home, those same kisses had become something to be endured rather than treasured, even when he was the one offering them.

He hated that Chris and he were lying to each other and to themselves and all without saying a single word.

The weather turned a bit, giving them a few days of moderate weather, cloudless skies and sun. Winter was still holding on, but Vin had felt the spring when he stepped out onto the deck this morning, bundled up, his breath still misting the air. The bitter edge of cold was gone, leaving just a persistent chill and nip in the air. The snow had faded although the Weather Channel was predicting more. It left the ground muddy and bare, ice crystals forming on the ground and over the dew only to be burned off as the sun rose. The poet in Vin couldn't deny the metaphors, even when Chris joined him, handing him a cup of coffee; they leaned against the wall of the house for a few moments, not touching but close. After awhile and a cup of coffee, Chris headed down to the barn to see to the horses before they left for the hospital.

Vin had stayed where he was, smiling only slightly when Chris rousted the horses out; Sire bugled his displeasure at the cold after his warm stall, then ran around the enclosure to stretch his legs. Legius followed the Sire's path at a stately sedate walk, brown coat gleaming under the morning sun, and nipped at Sire's flank when the other horse crowded him a little, trying to tempt him into playing.

Chris didn't take long. He'd been at it every day; the barn was probably cleaner and neater than it had ever been. He'd managed all of it alone. Vin couldn't maneuver across the muddy yard on crutches, even if he were able help with the simplest of tasks, which he really wasn't. Once, he might have tried anyway, but now, this time, just getting up in the mornings was harder than anything he could ever remember doing.

He eased himself onto the not-so-clean boot bench near the door, crutches against the wall, watching the horses, watching Chris as he came out to knock the crust of ice off the water trough in the corral and top it off. The leather and fleece stockman's coat swung open, revealing the worn Denver Bronco's sweatshirt underneath. He wasn't wearing his gloves; Vin could see them stuck in his pocket. His hands would be red and cold and chapped when he came in.

Aside from a Sire's noisy playing, and a few hardy winter crows, it was quiet, not even a breeze to ruffle the dead leaves or pine needles. Vin was too aware of the sound of his own breathing, of his heartbeat, of the spatter of water into the trough from the hose. He closed his eyes and wrapped the silence around him.

It had been a cocoon once, a refuge, the silence here. The lack of sirens or voices, the silence interrupted only occasionally by birds or other animals foraging under the deck. He tried for the peace of mind that this place once gave him.

The sound of Chris' feet moving across the half-frozen ground and then onto the wood of the deck forced him to open his eyes again. His fingers clutched tightly in the heavy coat, his breathing too fast and shallow.

Chris stopped a few feet from him, regarding him with an odd look, red on his cheeks and nose from the cold, eyes greener than usual in the reflected, shifting light. "Vin? You okay?" he asked and was already moving closer.

It was Chris. No doubt -- not that Vin had thought otherwise, but then again... With his eyes closed, in the silence, waiting for those steps, for any sound, he was no longer sure. Not when he slept. Not when he woke and the difference between the two was only a matter of degrees.

The need to stay alert to listen for the differences was wearing on him more than anything, but he didn't know how to stop it, didn't know how to say it, knowing it was crazy to think he'd somehow wake up and be in the darkness again. Waiting. Afraid. All of Caplan's words and his own understanding of what he was going through didn't help a damn bit. Fear as only part of it. He couldn't find any balance in this, couldn't find anything to hold onto -- not even Chris who was a solid a presence as Vin could imagine.

It wasn't enough. He wasn't sure anything ever would be.

"You're freezing," Chris said and gathered him up, the bulk of their outdoor wear thwarting anything too close. Chris steered him toward the house and in, ignoring the crutches for now as he pulled Vin into the living room and left him on the wide reading chair next to the couch while he got a fire going. Gas starters were wonderful things, Vin decided, too aware that Chris was watching him worriedly. Vin half wished he could reassure him.

The wood popped and crackled, adding noise to the too quiet house. The fire going, Chris turned back to him, his hands still red but warmer now from being so close to the fire. Warmer than Vin's anyway. "Vin? You with me there, cowboy?" he asked.

Vin nodded, took a breath and curled his fingers around Chris' hands. "I'm here."

"Okay," Chris said but didn't look reassured. He pulled a hand away, only one, at first, to shrug off half his coat, then released Vin to pull off the rest. "Warm enough to take that off?" he asked, tugging at the front of Vin's jacket and Vin actually pulled himself together enough to help, careful of his arm. Chris lifted both coats away and laid them on the sofa. "I'm going to get some coffee. You want some?"

"Yeah, that would be good," Vin said, trying to force himself to be normal. Turning to stare at the flames when Chris backed away reluctantly.

He didn't close his eyes again as he listened to the pop of the fire, hearing Chris in the kitchen and then finally the radio, when Chris turned it on to hear the traffic and weather report. He could close his eyes then, the darkness not quite so terrible when there was noise to fill it up, but only briefly because Chris was back pretty quickly, two mugs in hand, setting Vin's down on the side table and glancing back at the couch to make sure he'd left enough room to sit.

"Here," Vin said and shifted, remembering in the last second to use his good leg, but then there was room enough, the big chair almost but not quite the size of a love-seat, enough for two if they were cozy. Chris settled in and then settled Vin against him, able to reach both their cups and he passed Vin his.

Lips brushed his temple, feather-light, barely noticed or recognized for what it was and Vin didn't flinch. The quiet stretched -- not so silent, the radio still a murmur in the background -- Chris' breathing adding its cadence to Vin's along with the soft sip and slurp and swallow of coffee. He didn't flinch when Chris' arm settled around him either, the urge to draw away momentarily quelled.

Chris wouldn't press him, wouldn't ask, even when the frustration and helplessness drove him outside to find something to do. And this lull, this truce in the unspoken war they were fighting, would go a long way to rebuilding Chris' patience. A little over a month and he'd be back at work. Not that he'd really stopped, suspension or no. Chris was far more vital to the daily operations of the SOG groups than those higher up gave him credit for and Buck or Nathan had run out to the ranch more than once with papers or reports, or Chris had dropped by the office while Vin was in therapy.

It was its own kind of therapy for Chris. While they could talk about chucking the whole damned bureau and raising horses, it was still just talk. Once committed, Vin didn't doubt they'd make a go of it.

If they could. If he could. He hadn't ignored Caplan and her softly voiced rationales. He could identify what was wrong, recognized his own detachment for the coping mechanism it was, but the rest of it nagged at him. The why of it haunted him like a million other unanswered questions in his life but this one, he couldn't let go of.

Caplan would tell him that guilt was normal to feel, but that asking if this was a punishment for something was a great way to drive himself crazy.

Looked like she was right. Half the time he could convince himself that it was crap, that he'd deserved none of it, but when the darkness got too close or the silence so deep the memory of his own screaming was all he could hear, he wasn't so sure.

As much as he hated hospitals, as glad as he'd been to leave, he almost wished he were back there now. It was never entirely quiet there, never totally dark. He was always aware, even in the earliest morning hours, that there were other people around him: in the next room, in the hall, above him, below him.

At night here, he'd wake and have to listen for Chris to hear him inhale and exhale, snuffle or move. He wanted the full moon to come, to push its pale light through the window, or to leave the bathroom light on with the door cracked, but he was too afraid to ask Chris to do it and too proud to do it himself.

He'd never been afraid of the dark, or feared silence. There was a time he'd craved them both, seeing the landscape change in the darkness, to watch the shadows paint different patterns on the wall with ordinary furniture or a bundle clothing on a chair. Times in his apartment when he'd had trouble sleeping because the nights were too noisy and the streetlights never left his room dark. Even before he and Chris had gotten together, he'd come out here, staying over on weekends, craving those things.

Now he could only wonder if he'd ever stop being afraid of either.

"We need to head out soon." Chris' voice was low, sliding in and under the other noises that Vin was concentrating on. Welcome for all that, but Vin felt his heart pick up it's pace at the idea of getting away from this place, far more eager for the sounds of the city than for his therapy.

"I'se thinking," Vin said, surprised at the crack in his own voice, the sudden tension in Chris' body. "Thinking maybe I'd stay in town for a bit."

Chris didn't say anything, mouth and throat working but no sound emerged for long moments. "Be hard stairs."

"Elevator works. Just have to be patient," Vin said, even the old cranky box of it holding less to fear than being out here in the quiet and darkness did.

"Albertsons can look after the horses--"

"Ain't no reason for you to stay there. I can get a cab to the hospital," Vin said.

Another silence and Vin felt the sliver of hurt he'd inflicted turn back on himself as Chris got up carefully. "If that's what you want. You want me to get some stuff together?"

"I've got stuff," Vin said and pushed up. "Need my crutches." He moved carefully to the sofa to get his coat, picking up Chris' as well and handing it to him, only then meeting his eyes. Chris took the coat, face set, but reaction was there anyway: confusion and pain, the need to help, the stubbornness that wouldn't let him ask or offer.

"I'll get them," he said finally, and headed outside.

It took him a whole lot longer to get the crutches than it should have, his face once more red from the cold, nose running a little but he got Vin's gear, put the fire out and turned off the radio.

He hadn't been any less careful getting Vin into the truck, had touched him no more and no less, and if he was angry, Vin didn't see it as they sorted themselves out for yet another day in the city, at the hospital. Vin felt as if he'd traded one kind of torture for another, only this time Chris was there to see it. It didn't make it easier for either of them.

But here Chris was, beside him ready to hand over water or a towel or encouragement, carry a bag full of clean clothes over his shoulder for Vin to change into once Paul finished the stretches and sent him off to the whirlpool for a half hour.

He was there afterward too, helping him dress, making sure he was bundled up enough to make it out to the truck. And he'd take Vin to the apartment, make sure he got inside okay, had food, could get what he needed.

Then he'd leave, because Vin asked him to, however obliquely. Just as he'd done pretty much everything Vin had asked him to.

Vin just hadn't gotten around to making the request straightforward and clear, unsure if his desire for Chris to leave him alone would be granted as well or even if that was what he really wanted.

That he hadn't asked Chris what he wanted didn't escape his notice either.

When they finally got out of the hospital and into the truck, the silence was too familiar and Vin hardly dared blink during the ride toward his apartment, for fear of inviting the darkness back. And even with the heater running full blast, it was cold between them. Like ice or winter.

With no hint of spring.

 

##  ~Chapter Eighteen~

** 2:42 p.m., Purgatorio**

The elevator was cranky; slow and noisy enough to make Chris grind his teeth. It was relatively quiet in Purgatorio: kids in school, adults at work. But there was always music playing somewhere, cars on the road, people who didn't have work out on the streets, but not so many since it was still cold despite the sun breaking through.

Mrs. Walden didn't come out, didn't even crack her door, but Chris had seen the curtains move in her window as he helped Vin out of the truck. It was a little surprising, really, that she didn't come out and at least say hello, and he thought maybe he ought to check on her after he got Vin settled and made a run for groceries. See if she needed anything, since he was going anyway.

Not that Vin had asked. Not that Vin, damn him, had asked for anything before today. Chris had to ask, nearly always -- if he needed his meds, if he wanted food, if he was okay.

Apparently he and Tanner had different definitions of okay, because Chris hadn't been prepared for what Vin had asked. Hours later he was still fighting with the desire to tell him no, that he was in no condition to be back in this hell hole of a neighborhood, trapped on the top floor of a building that was a challenge to even the able-bodied.

He certainly hadn't been prepared for Vin to ask to be left alone.

And he had no idea what to make of it, what to do about it. Was it grief or anger or depression, all three? Physically Vin was actually healing up far better than the doctors had expected. Paul was impressed, so much so that he'd cautioned Chris again that slow steady progress was better than trying to rush things.

But they hadn't been. The warnings had lodged deep in Chris' mind, and he did no more or less than the instructions sheets allowed them. Vin hadn't been prone to push either, which was surprising in itself, since being so limited in his ability to do for himself would usually have made him impossible to live with, to be around.

The last couple of weeks had been like living with a ghost, and not necessarily Vin's ghost, either.

Vin took the elevator ride with more calm that Chris expected. Usually his complaint was it was too slow, which is why he always took the stairs. That it was small was more the real reason, but he got in, leaned against the wall and said nothing. Didn't twitch or start at its epileptic behavior. It stopped on all floors regardless of which buttons were pushed. When it finally stopped on the top floor, Vin didn't rush to get out, trusting the doors to stay open long enough, even without Chris holding them open.

He rested against the wall again while Chris fished out the keys and got the door unlocked.

It was warm enough and light enough inside, if a little dusty. It had been a few days since Chris had been by to do more than pick up Vin's mail and that only because he kept forgetting to put a forward notice into the post office.

Looked like he wasn't going to need to do that now.

Dust hung in the air, little motes dancing on the sunlight coming in the big widows at the front of the apartment. The same light bringing out the highlights in Vin's hair as he maneuvered to the sofa to sit. He'd pulled his hair back for therapy; the loose hairs at his forehead and neck were stiff with sweat and darker. It needed to be cut but Vin wasn't ready for a trip to the barber shop and Chris hadn't even offered to get anywhere near him with scissors.

Chris let him do it at his own pace, made sure he was settled before heading to the kitchen, making note of what he'd need to get that Vin would eat or fix for himself. Worrying that Vin wouldn't do either left on his own. There were sodas left, and he grabbed two, bringing one plastic bottle to Vin. "I need to get to the store. There's not much here."

"I'm not going anywhere," Vin said, which sounded almost petulant to Chris' ears until he looked. Vin had the cap off the bottle, had taken a sip, was sitting forward on the couch with the crutches beside him, forearms still reddened from the metal cuffs. He wasn't leaning back in fatigue: his body was tense and poised for flight or a blow. His eyes were down, face closed off. He wasn't thinking of food, and he wasn't protesting going out again. He was a fixed object, immovable.

"You need anything in particular, or should I just guess?"

Vin glanced up, moistened his lips like he was going to speak then took a swig of the soda instead. "Sandwich stuff will do me. I appreciate you doing this."

They might as well have been strangers, or Chris one of the hospital staff. "I won't be long," he said and headed out. Closing the door behind him he leaned against it for a moment. He heard nothing: not the TV coming on, or the creak of the sofa springs as Vin settled back.

Mrs. Walden took longer than usual to come to the door. But she had a list, not very long. It never was. Staples though, which made Chris wonder how she did when no one was there to ask, or if other people in the building helped her out.

He might have used the market Vin did, but he felt the need for some extra selection. Or the time it took to drive out of Purgatorio to one of the big chain stores. Once there, the mental list in his head vanished and he wandered, trying not to lose track of the time, stalling returning with the groceries because it only meant he'd have to leave again.

Juice yeah, and milk, a twelve pack of beer because Vin could have them in moderation. He wondered if Mrs. Walden drank sherry. He could check on her, on his way to the hospital or back -- except Vin had said he could manage a cab.

Which meant he'd need cash, so Chris stopped at the teller machine with his grocery cart half filled and withdrew money. There wasn't a bank or an ATM in Purgatorio and Vin always used the one close to the office, which was another place he wouldn't be seeing for awhile yet. He'd need to get his prescriptions filled soon too.

Halfway between the cold cuts and the bakery Chris just stopped, staring at the sales display of sports drinks.

Vin probably could manage. He'd been doing for himself for a lot of years. Asking for anything wasn't something he did easily or without thought.

But he shouldn't have to manage, and he shouldn't have to ask.

And neither should Chris. Not to stay, not to help. But maybe he should have been asking other things all this time instead of relying on Vin to talk when he was ready. At the rate he was going, he never would be. And Chris had been headed down the same road, thinking that Vin needed time. Grateful just to have him back.

Only he wasn't back. Getting Vin away from Hartman had only been the beginning.

It didn't take a lot of effort to summon up either the anger or the despair he'd felt when he'd thought Vin dead and gone. The grief was closer still, never fully realized, maybe, but there. Just waiting for him. Anger too, not quite so intense, simmering along his nerves, in the back of his mind.

What did he expect? What had he expected when the doctors talked to them, when the department psychologist had handed him the packet of information? Josiah had said it too, in his own round about way, that this might be different for Vin, for them both.

Chris ground his teeth together and rubbed at his face, not quite prepared to face what he'd been avoiding. Vin fought back. He always fought back. He'd fought his way back to health two years ago after they'd pulled him away from Juarez. He'd been quiet then too, but only needing to get his bearings once more. This was worse maybe, because he was fighting for an uncertain future with the Bureau, would be even if he weren't injured the way things were going.

Chris didn't quite know what to do, and he'd been waiting for Vin to tell him, thinking that time and patience and no pressure would be all the reassurances that he needed that Chris wasn't going anywhere, but apparently that wasn't the issue at all. Not if Vin was trying to get away from him. To be on his own, assert his independence.

Was that it, then? Did Vin only need to know he could make it on his own still? Chris turned it over in his mind, picked it up and looked at it from all sides and couldn't make it fit. This was different. He wasn't sure how, only his gut told him it was. There was something here he still wasn't seeing. Maybe something he hadn't been looking for. Maybe something he didn't want to see.

The grocery cart was half filled with sandwich things, microwave dinners, Mrs. Walden's requests for milk and tea and bread and eggs. Bottled water and the beer.

He was half-tempted to take one of the beers out and drink it right there. Maybe two. Maybe stop and get a shot of whiskey, call Buck and see if his friend had any insight to this. Or Josiah.

Had this been him instead of Vin, he'd probably have been drinking a lot. It had always been his escape of choice, despite his promises to Nathan and Buck. Not drinking through all this had been more a case of recognizing that what Vin needed, Chris couldn't provide from the bottom of a bottle.

And Vin in his own grief and anger…Vin didn't drink, or not the way Chris had, did. Vin went to ground. He couldn't make it to Texas this time, hadn't even asked. The ranch could be a refuge and usually was. Chris had thought it had started to become home to Vin too. The papers had come through, properties all registered. All of them, all of it, theirs. But there had been no more moving of anything but Vin's clothes to the ranch, a few personal item Chris thought Vin might need, all picked up before Vin ever left the hospital.

Packed back up again in the little carry-all Chris had fixed before they let this morning, the bandages and creams, antibiotics and antidepressants. Chris hadn't asked him what else he might need, he'd just agreed, too shocked to do anything else.

The shock was wearing off. Vin wanted to come back to Purgatorio for a reason and Chris needed to know what that reason was. And to do that he'd have to be there, stick with Vin.

And he shouldn't have to ask. Unless Vin told him that had changed, he shouldn't have to ask if he could stay.

He took a breath, wondering if they'd fight about it, almost hoping so, because to see anything on Vin's face other than the fatigue and worry and pain and uncertainty would be a blessing. It would be progress.

He jerked the cart around and headed back to the frozen foods section, pushing all the little boxes back in one section and headed for the meat department. It took him a fraction of the time to make his choices -- enough for two -- and the mental list in his head didn't fade this time. Call the Albertsons, maybe get Buck or JD or someone to the ranch to pick up more clothes, or he could drive out later, tomorrow, while Vin was at therapy.

This time Mrs. Walden opened her door the minute he stepped inside the building and he helped her; she let him when he asked, inviting him into her crowded but neat-as-a-pin apartment with its years of accumulated memories. And she talked a little too as he put the groceries away, offered to take out her trash and asked her, how she did.

"It's been warmer. I can walk to the market," she told him, "And Carlos will go if let him get a candy bar." But Chris had seen the boxes of powdered milk on the high shelves; the big tin of coffee. Mrs. Walden was prepared for when the weather was too cold for her to make the three block walk, or when no one offered. Self-sufficient but not above taking help when it was offered. To ask Carlos Gonzales to run errands for her, with only the exchange of a little something sweet that he probably didn't get enough of with only his mother's salary to support him and his brothers and sisters. Vin had always said his neighbors across the hall were good folk. That Carmen managed to keep her kids in line by making sure they all had something to contribute, oldest to youngest. The kids were noisy. Carmen was too, but it was always laughter, he heard, not fighting.

He left her then, not surprised to see muffins in one of his own bags as he headed up, a little over-burdened but managing the stairs. The door was still unlocked, the apartment quiet. Vin was no longer on the sofa and Chris set the groceries on the counter to check the bedroom.

Vin was stretched out, on his side, leg and arm propped up, breathing slow and regular. Falling asleep after therapy wasn't unusual. The room was chillier though and Chris glanced up to see the window cracked, the sounds of the city more noticeable than in the front room. He moved carefully to pull the coverlet up and over Vin, then headed back into the kitchen.

After the groceries were put up, he made a couple of phone calls, and by the time he'd started a late lunch -- early dinner -- he heard Vin; the clatter of one of the crutches hitting the floor from where Vin had leaned them against the dresser. No cursing though. He turned the heat down under the hamburgers and headed back.

Vin was on his feet, face showing the strain as he struggled against both pain and fatigue, looking almost surprised to see Chris standing there.

"You ready to eat something?" Chris asked.

"Thought I smelled cooking. What…? Sandwich would have been fine."

"I was in the mood. How are you feeling?"

Vin shook his head and moved forward. "'m fine. Tired."

"Too tired to eat?"

"No. No, I could eat. Since you fixed it."

And if he hadn't? Chris didn't ask. "It'll be waiting."

Because Vin would probably need the bathroom, or a few minutes. Chris didn't offer to help him. He could manage that all on his own now. The shower might be a problem, with the high tub walls, but they'd figure it out.

Nothing fancy: burgers and buns and oven fries and the trimmings, a couple of beers. Chris set the food on the table rather than watch Vin struggle with the bar stools on the other side of the counter.

"Could have picked this up at the drive through," Vin said, when he finally emerged. It wasn't a complaint really, just a protest for Chris having gone to the trouble.

"Tastes better when it's cooked at home," Chris said, and once more caught the slightly confused look Vin gave him but he sat, picked up his burger and bit into it. Maybe not as good as on the grill, but they'd do, and Chris ate his own with little comment. Near the end of the meal he got up and dug in the bag to find Vin's pills, laying the four tablets beside his plate with a glass of water, then checked on the coffee he had brewing and brought out Mrs. Walden's muffins.

That got a smile out of Vin if nothing else. "How's she doing?"

"She's a pretty tough little lady," Chris said. "I picked up groceries for her."

"She is pretty tough," Vin agreed and glance at the clock. "Don't you need to get back to check on the animals? Getting late. Traffic."

"I called Paul Albertson. He'll see to them." Chris got up once more and pulled down coffee mugs.

"You don't need to stay." It took longer for Vin to say than Chris expected, but he'd waited for it, back to Vin, pouring the coffee, adding sugar and cream to Vin's.

"You want me to go?" he asked. It was harder than he thought, harder still to wait and anticipate the yes that might be coming; not quite as comfortable with contemplating the argument that would follow as he had been in the grocery store thinking about it.

"I can manage."

Not yes, then. Chris brought the mugs back to the table and sat down beside Vin rather than across from him. "Do you want me to leave, Vin?" he asked more clearly, watching his partner's face.

And he could see Vin struggling with it, looking up, then down. "No…I just..."

His fingers were pulling at the little paper cup wrapped around the muffin. Blue, Chris noted. Pale, slightly greasy-looking, blue. "Just what, Vin? What are we doing here?"

The muffin was pushed away, Vin picking up crumbs with his finger tip and brushing them off onto his plate. His lips parted and closed again, thinned, and he licked at them. He closed his eyes, only to open them again suddenly, a faint tremor running through him, his hands shaking. He pressed one hand to the table and the other hand, his arm, the injured one, came up to his face. It twinged and Chris saw it, the flash of pain, the flash of fear. He covered Vin's hand on the table and moved closer.

"Vin, what are we doing here? If it's not me you want to get away from, what is it?" he asked quietly. Vin's hand tightened into a fist but Chris only curved his own around it, waiting him out, feeling his own flash of fear.

"It's too quiet…" Barely a breath, as if to say it too loud would bring it all crashing down on him.

Chris didn't know what to make of that, didn't entirely understand it, but felt his heart pound a little harder when Vin turned his hand, gripping Chris' with a kind of desperate strength, the kind of strength men showed when they were in pain and unwilling to cry out.

Silence. It stretched between them, but Chris didn't think this was what Vin meant, and he listened. He always thought of Purgatorio as noisy. There was no quiet here, not even in the middle of the night. From the hum of the streetlights to cars on the road, trucks on the highway that could echo through Denver's buildings until it sounded like they were right below you. He could hear it now, even with the open bedroom window far away: He could hear distant voices and music, the sound of a car horn, the sudden shout of the kids on the barren playground across the street, the clank and hiss of the radiators.

Nearly since the beginning, Vin had come to the ranch, not just for Chris' company, but for the quiet, for the solitude, the softer sounds of breezes through tree limbs, or the whickered greetings of the horses. Held onto that little place in Texas, not only for the memories, but for the quiet. There was nothing but hawks and jackrabbits and the occasional coyote to break the flat silence of the place. Vin craved it, needed it sometimes. To find that still place inside him that was the envy of his teammates, the quiet that he found inside himself, that would let him perch for hours, sit back and watch his teammates be in motion, be foolish or playful. Still and quiet himself until he'd burst into action.

Now that same quiet needed to be avoided? Not just avoided, but run from, hid from. Or just avoided, because it was too much.

"It's too quiet at the ranch," Chris echoed.

"It's quiet…dark," Vin said and there was color tingeing his cheeks, embarrassed at the admission. He tried to pull his hand away, but Chris only linked their fingers, meeting Vin's gaze when he looked up on realizing he wasn't going to be let go.

Chris still didn't understand, entirely, trying to work through it. Quiet and dark – which the ranch wasn't except at night. And it was dark at night when there was no moon.

And Vin was embarrassed on top of being afraid. Chris was betting Caplan hadn't gotten any of this, wouldn't know how to ask or push Vin to talk about it. Chris was on none too sure ground either, and while his understanding of basic psychology was sound enough, it was years behind him.

"Tell me," he prompted, moving closer still, his arm resting across the back of Vin's chair, one hand drifting up to rub his back, right between the shoulder blades.

"It's…. the waiting. Not hearing," Vin struggled to put his fears to words without actually naming them, without giving them form. "Until…" he jerked his hand away suddenly, lifting it to dig the heels of his hands into his eyes, startling Chris, maybe himself as he suddenly struggled to stand, knocking the crutches over, seeking escape.

In broad daylight, with Chris right there. More than the anxiety Vin felt in small spaces, more than not wanting to talk about it.

Waiting in the darkness until…

Chris caught him, steadied him, squeezed his arms, even when Vin tried to pull away again, the first of anger chasing the paleness from his face, putting a flash of fire in his eyes.

"Vin, no one's coming for you in the dark but me," Chris said it steadily, wondering if he'd guessed right, knowing even if he had, this wasn't all of it. "Is that it? In the cellar…"

The anger faded back to near-panic, but Vin wasn't pulling away, if anything, he was leaning in and Chris shifted to take more of his weight, hip to table, letting Vin stand but rest until Chris could reach up and touch his face, bring his attention back to Chris and away from whatever nightmare was playing in his mind with his eyes open. "We can stay here. It's okay, Vin." He bit back the urge to remind Vin this was normal, because it wasn't. Normal for someone recovering from trauma, maybe, but Chris wasn't sure that had actually started, now. His wounds were healing, yes, but the rest of this…what the hell was the psychologist doing twice a week, if not helping Vin work through this?

"It's so stupid…" Vin was murmuring, voice harsh and low. Restless under Chris' hands, until he rose, and pulled Vin in, felt the half-thwarted rise of Vin's arms around him.

"It's not, Vin. It's not stupid…it's scary as hell. Not knowing, waiting for what's next," Chris said, knowing that fear – different from Vin's as he'd waited, not knowing, wondering when they'd find Vin's body, if there would be anything left to identify – then not knowing what he would see when he did find Vin in that huge nightmare of a house. He wasn't holding Vin tightly, no hug to make it all go away, but Vin had his weight on his good leg, leaning against Chris' thigh, hand on Chris' hip, poised between flight and collapse. He literally couldn't run, but the urge was there in the twitch of his muscles, in the hard set of his jaw. "What can I do?"

"Nothin'…" Vin said, shaking his head, twisting away, but Chris caught him when he stumbled and did wrap his arms around him, when Vin hissed out in pain, the leg buckling. Chris ducked under his shoulder, got an arm around his waist to take his weight, moving them both toward the sofa when Vin was able to move.

But he went down with him, settling in the corner and pulling Vin against him when he got his leg up on the couch. There was resistance, but it felt more like reaction than purpose and Chris rubbed Vin's arm until he relaxed, letting his head drop back on Chris' shoulder. When Vin was settled, Chris found the remote, turned the TV on low -- background noise from some crafts show. It didn't matter what it was. The low murmur of voices filled the quiet and Chris continued to rub, massage, pressing his lips to Vin's hair and thought he felt him turn fractionally toward him.

Ten minutes later Vin's chin had dropped, breathing slow and easy, dozing more than really sleeping and it wasn't entirely comfortable for either of them, but Chris didn't move, shifting only as much as he needed to not to cramp, settling Vin again with a whisper or another rub along his arm or over his chest.

He jerked when his cell rang, jolting Vin awake as Chris fumbled to pull the phone from his belt, answering it even as he pulled Vin back against him.

"Chris." Buck. "You boys still at the hospital? I called the house."

"No. We're in town at the apartment, Buck," he said to let Vin know who it was. "What's up?"

"Wanted to see if you wanted a break in the routine, grab some dinner. I was gonna grab it and bring it out…"

"We ate late…but," Chris glanced down. "You up to some company?"

Vin gave it some thought, and then nodded. "Yeah, sure. Tell 'im to come over," he said, sounding sure although not enthusiastic. Chris gave it a few seconds thought as well.

"Why don't you come over? Bring what you want -- we've got beer. Where's JD?"

"Around. I'll extend the invite and we'll see you in about a half hour or so."

"Good enough," Chris said and Buck hung up. "A half hour…"

Vin nodded, looking calmer if still pensive. "Be good to see them."

"Yeah," Chris said and went back to his rubbing. Maybe Vin knew what he needed without actually knowing it. The ranch was isolated and though the team had made a point of visiting on the weekends, or Buck in the evenings during the week, they'd been on their own, pretty much, except for the daily trips. Chris had thought Vin would want the privacy, the space to heal…it was what he'd always needed before if he was injured or upset.

But this was different. Maybe different in ways Chris was just now seeing. In this, maybe Vin needed more contact, more people and the feeling of life around him, that the world was intact even if he wasn't.

"You want to talk about it?" he asked quietly, feeling as awkward in the asking as he was sure Vin felt trying to find words. If there were any.

Vin gave a dry chuckle. "I don't even know what 'it' is…and if I hear PTSD one more time, I swear I'm going to shoot someone."

"It's what it is, Vin," Chris said after a moment, rubbing along his arm. "But it's just a word. A label. Not shootable."

"Be easier if it was." Now Vin did sound like a cranky child but Chris only grinned at him.

"Yeah. We could write it out on one of the targets at the range. Big letters. Work on getting your aim back…like one of those tin punch things."

"Might need the training at that," Vin said, but he seemed okay as he stretched the injured arm out, wincing when the shoulder pulled. Chris reached out as well, lacing their fingers together once more. "Can't even straighten the damn thing out. Little hard to settle a rifle…have to cut the stock down."

"You'll get there."

"And if I don't?"

They had talked about this before, a little. No hedging from the doctors that a total recovery was a sure thing. They'd had to cut some tendons and stitch them back together, remove bone fragments and infection. Antibiotics and physical therapy could only take Vin so far, the rest would be as much luck as science. Functional, yes. Vin might always limp some, might never regain full range of motion in his shoulder and arm. Enough to disable him from the bureau, or maybe only from field work, but he wouldn't be disabled really.

"Then we raise horses. Or start up something else."

"Nothing wrong with you."

"Nope. There's not…" Chris agreed. "But I'm not going to do this forever. It's getting harder -- new regs, new jurisdictions, maybe even a whole new organization if the idiots in Washington ever get their act together on national security. McCall is leaving and my guess is Travis won't be long after him."

"You weren't thinking of quitting…"

"No, not really, but I was already starting to wonder. But that's not why…this isn't…" It hadn't been the first time he'd thought of it. It wasn't even that recent but it had hammered at him in a desperate 48 hours and the weeks following until he'd managed to push it aside, with all his energy focused on Vin. That hadn't shifted, but something had, opening that chasm of fear wide once more. Chris pulled their arms back in, folding them both across Vin's chest, his own heart beating somewhat faster, and he drew a deep breath, almost pressing his face to Vin's hair, smelling sweat and antiseptic and the last faint traces of Vin's shampoo.

Vin's hand tightened on his. "Chris?" he moved his head carefully, shifting a little to look up, gaze less uncertain and more worried.

It took Chris another minute to get it together, hugging Vin to him reflexively, before taking another breath and blowing it out forcefully. "I have been thinking about it...only not directly. I'm not sure I could go through this again, Vin. I never really thought I could -- I mean, I've spent the last few years, before you, not worrying too damn much if I lived or died as long as I didn't take anyone with me. But with you…they say lightning never strikes twice, but I'm not so sure of that. This was close enough to count as a near miss." He wrapped his other arm around Vin, closing his eyes. He was supposed to be getting Vin to talk, but he hadn't realized how much this had all been boiling up inside him. "Sometimes, I'm just scared that it's like fate or something. That loving…" He shook his head. "I'm scared too, Vin. But not really about us maybe having to change our lives to…to accommodate what's happened. Scared it was going to change and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to stop it."

Vin's thumb stroked across the back of his hand and he laid his head back, resting it on Chris' shoulder. "Fate…I keep thinking…wondering."

When Vin didn't continue, Chris dropped his head pressing his lips to his lover's temple again, fighting for the patience and not really begrudging Vin the time even having spilled his own guts. Vin rarely ever spoke the thoughts that randomly played through his mind.

"I thought I had it…what I do, why and how and how come I'm so good at it," Vin said, starting carefully and picking his way through the minefield of words and feelings. "Good with a gun. Good when it works for us…but it doesn't always, you know?" he said and Chris nodded, sorting out the words and slightly surprised that Vin wasn't really talking about Hartman at all. Or Juarez. It wasn't his bullets that had taken out either of them. "That priest…I missed him and I felt….taking the shot at all made me think. Wasn't sure I liked what I came up with. That I could do that to a man who hadn't done anything. But I did…took the shot anyway. But after, now…I wonder if me missing had anything to do with me at all. Like maybe...maybe he really does have someone looking after him, judging…that it weren't his time to go."

Vin's voice had dropped and Chris had to dip his head to hear him, he was speaking so softly -- more to himself than Chris, and he was tensing again. Good leg bent and brace, fingers tightening on Chris'. But no more words came, Vin's head down, breathing softly and Chris mentally backed up, not liking what conclusions he drew.

"You think this is …punishment for something -- for doing what you do? For taking that shot? You missed him, Vin."

"The road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm thinking maybe …maybe bad intentions count least as much. Maybe more."

Chris' first reaction was one of disbelief, if not the urge to outright scoff at the idea that God, or anyone, would punish Vin Tanner for being good with a gun. That Vin was dwelling on this was difficult to believe, even harder to accept was that he half sounded like he believed it. Maybe even deserved it. Self-loathing wasn't something that immediately jumped to mind when he thought of Vin.

Denial was easy but it brought Chris up short. There was no truth to it, that he could put faith in, but hadn't he just thought the same thing? Hadn't he pursued the same train of thought when Sarah and Adam had died so suddenly, so pointlessly, so unfairly? He could remember every transgression he had flagellated himself with in the aftermath, from youthful indiscretions to some of the operations he'd completed while in the Navy -- some of them bitter and as vicious as anything he'd seen on the street since. He didn't see Vin in the same light, or any of his men. Not even Buck, who had been on most of the SEAL ops with him, and he could only vaguely remember the two of them wrestling with such questions only to have training and the narrow focus of the military mind shut those conversations down before they could produce any shade of doubt or diminish their effectiveness.

Judging himself more harshly, maybe because of his loss, maybe in spite of it. "There is nothing you've *ever* done that could deserve this kind of punishment, Vin. I'm not saying killing Father Barrett..." and Chris surprised himself by remembering the man's name, "…would have been a good thing, but saving the rest of that congregation would have been. Maybe it was God, or fate, intervening to ring those bells, to pull your target, but if that kind of intervention were…possible, don't you think it would have happened before then?"

"Maybe," Vin allowed. "I'm just trying to find a reason for it…all of it, Chris, and what I've done."

"Aw, Vin…" Chris breathed deep, wondering if he could manage to catch Buck and see if Josiah was up to visiting as well. Except he wasn't sure Vin would talk about this to Josiah either. It had taken a lot to get him to talk to Chris at all. He shifted, Vin startled as Chris slid from under him, only to sit down next to him, so he could see Vin's face more clearly. Vin settled back against the corner of the sofa, not quite meeting Chris' eyes except briefly, looking bewildered and stubborn which was a interesting combination, even for Vin. "Is making this your fault really gonna make it any easier?" he asked, rubbing lightly along Vin's injured leg, just above his knee. "Taking responsibility for your actions is one thing. Shouldering…God, Vin." Chris rubbed at his eyes, the precepts of dozens of training and leadership seminars tried to sort themselves out in his brain, but Vin didn't need a lecture on the rigors of the job, and certainly not from Chris. "Vin…Hollinger made his choices, sane or not. He set this in motion and you had nothing at all to do with that. You…all of us wanted to find a way out of it without a bunch of dead bodies to catalogue. Hartman took advantage of an irresponsible bit of journalistic bull shit. But he made his choices as well. Your being the target of his….revenge…wasn't some kind of payback for your making poor choices somewhere along the line. That's like saying…"

This one hurt, raw and vicious and selfish and Chris almost didn't say it, except he recognized the same kind of roundabout thinking that could lead a man to tear himself apart over why anything happened as it did. "It's like saying that…Sarah and Adam somehow deserved what happened to them. That I deserved to lose them for being…a selfish, moody bastard, or for executing the orders I did in the Navy. Or even…"

Vin sat up catching Chris' hands, shaking his head soundlessly, denying that Chris had any culpability.

"No? It's what I thought for the longest time. Not that Sarah and Adam deserved to die like that, because of me, but …because of *me*. Revenge. Judgment. I wanted to believe it...I swear I did. If I could make it my fault, or Buck's or the damned job, that it would somehow be easier to bear, but it wasn't, Vin. It never has been. Those answers wouldn't have been *the* answer. They might help, if I could find the sonofabitch that planted that bomb, but it won't bring them back…and even if it did, if it could..." his heart ached at the thought of it, at being forced to the point of choice, pain so sharp it actually made him hurt. Given Sarah and Adam in front of him, right now, right here? With Vin here as well…he couldn't even begin to make that choice. He'd want them all, fight for it, maybe destroy everything between all of them, but to make the choice?

Wetness splashed against the back of his hand, rolled over his skin to dampen Vin's. He felt like he couldn't breathe, hands tightening on Vin's.

Vin's thumb brushed over the wet spot, wiping it dry. "I just want it to make some sense...if it could…trying to look forward, trying to see past this minute or this day. I can't see that far, Chris. To when it passes, when I can look up and not think I have to make it through another day. Not wake up and tell myself it's worth it to put in the effort. You did it…made it through that. And losin' Sarah and Adam at all, much less the way you did…this ain't nothing but physical shit. Let this heal. See the therapy get it all a little stronger every day…but the inside…I can't seem to…" He shook his head, once more unable to find the words to express the confusion.

"I had help," Chris said, almost without thinking. "I could have had more help if I'd let my family get within ten feet of me. But I couldn't hardly get Buck to put that much distance between us. And you won't be able to get that far away from me, either, Tanner. Right now I could outrun you without breaking a sweat."

The corner of Vin's mouth twitched and Chris felt a smile of his own start. Vin's never materialized entirely but it was there, waiting. "You can't outrun this, Vin," Chris said after a moment. "Sounds like the bureau psyche, but it's not something being here," he said, looking around the apartment, "is going to change. But if it helps…then here we'll stay for a bit. Or we could head out of town entirely for awhile. There's other hospitals and other therapists."

Vin nodded, agreeing with Chris' options but not agreeing to them, and tapped his skull with his knuckles. "I know it's all up here…just not used to spending so much time up there," he offered a half smile. "Not for stuff that matters. Whether it's right or wrong."

No, he wouldn't be comfortable with that. Vin was perfectly capable and even excelled at thinking through strategies and approach plans, sorting through details and bits of data, but feelings were all instinct and had rarely let him down as they were doing now. "Might take as long as getting that leg back in shape to get our balance again. Maybe longer…but it'll happen. Cut yourself some slack." Chris said and got up, leaning over to kiss Vin lightly. "I'm gonna clear of the table…got company coming."

"Chris—" Vin said, catching his neck awkwardly and Chris put a knee on the sofa and braced his arm. Still not words, but yeah, watching Vin made it all easier to understand in some ways. The light kiss was replaced with something less about reassurance than need and if the passion was edge with a little desperation, so be it.

Familiar and warm, eager and demanding, Chris might have let all his weight slip down if he didn't know Vin would pay for it later, and he might even have urged Vin up and to the bedroom had the Wilmington squad of good cheer and distraction not already been on its way.

Vin's fingers finally eased their clench in his hair and Chris nuzzled his throat for a second before pushing up. "You hang onto that thought for later, pard," he said and he did get a grin, taunting and more like the Vin that was, the first sign of it Chris had seen in weeks.

Chris cleaned up a bit and Vin did as well, making his way to the bathroom to wash his face and brush his hair out. Nibbling on Mrs. Walden's muffin while Chris gave the coffee table and the counters a quick swipe with a damp cloth.

Vin swapped the noise from the TV for stack of CD's, Tom Petty greeting Buck and JD when they finally arrived, laden with wings and mini-tacos. Not really a meal, just food.

After that, even Vin couldn't complain that it was too quiet. JD and Buck talked over each other, about things going on in the office -- things that Buck wouldn't include during his routine check-ins with Chris. They were still on stand down but there wasn't actually a whole lot going on. They'd done some checking to make sure Ezra's various covers hadn't been blown. There'd been a lot of too-quiet feuding going on in the offices upstairs, some of which Chris knew and for the first time Vin actually seemed to be paying attention, though he offered little comment. They skipped topics and tossed barbs at each other over everything from the stats of their favorite sports teams to speculation about the two women who had moved into their complex the week before.

JD finally popped in a movie they'd brought and they settled with beers and chips. Without even being asked JD had cut the sound on the movie when Vin finally dropped off about nine, and the three of them continued talking softly for a bit.

Chris found himself dozing too, Vin stretched out on the sofa with a pillow in Chris' lap and when he finally snapped awake, Buck and JD were moving quietly around the apartment, cleaning up. Buck grinned at him and winked. "Need help getting him to bed?"

"Maybe," Chris said, feeling stiff but he also actually felt far more rested than he had any right to feel sitting up like this. Maybe Vin had something about too much silence.

"Hey, Vin?" JD had crouched, careful to only shake Vin lightly to wake him. But he woke suddenly and only Chris' hand on his shoulder kept him from twisting himself painfully. "We're getting ready to go."

"Oh...aw...shit. Wasn't much company," Vin said and pulled himself up cautiously.

JD only grinned at him. "Company was good. Movie sucked," he waved it off and reached over for Vin's crutches.

Vin was still sleep baffled and Chris took the time to glance at his watch and slide off the couch. He squelched the urge to help Vin get to his feet -- JD was doing fine -- and finished helping Buck clean up.

Buck was rinsing off plates in the sink. "Forgot he gets tired so easy."

Chris shook his head. "Naw. It's good," he said smiling again on hearing JD's laughter at something Vin had said. JD offered his shoulder, for Vin to get steady. "Better actually…"

"Something going on?" Buck asked voice low and nothing but concern showing in his eyes.

"Recovery. We'll probably stay in town for a few days. Maybe see if we can meet up with you guys after work."

"You know we'd love that. Everyone…all of us...we didn't want to crowd him, or you."

And Chris hadn't wanted anyone crowding them either, but shifting gears was part of what made him a good SAC and he knew it. "I think we're both ready for a little crowding."

"Well, okay, then…" Buck said, grinning but his eyes were still serious. "Maybe you and me should grab lunch one day, maybe?" he said, asking without trying to force Chris into a situation where he might feel he had to talk.

Chris studied Buck for a long moment before reaching out to grip his shoulder. He'd felt slightly guilty at dumping so much of the team's operation on Buck when he knew Buck hated it. It seemed unfair to ask him to step up to the plate in other ways too, but he needed to rethink that. Wanting to help his friends, be there for them, was as integral a part of Buck's nature as his laughter and his optimism. "I think that's the best idea I've heard in weeks," Chris said, and meaning it.

Buck patted his hand and grinned, then pulled away to finish up.

They left not long after, and Vin watched them pull away from the curb, chuckling at Buck's horn, before turning back to the room to settle against the window seat.

Chris gathered up pills and a glass of water, offering both to Vin before settling into the widow seat opposite him, watching him take them without complaint or hesitation, then setting the empty glass on the floor. A small grimace crossed his face but then he was sitting back again, showing no inclination to move. "Gonna sleep out here?"

"I might," Vin said then shook his head. "Naw. Just kind of awake now. Feel less…crazy…than I did earlier," he added sheepishly.

Chris leaned forward, lightly rubbing along Vin's calf where he had it propped on the seat. Vin's mood was less dark and Chris didn't want to bring it back but he also wasn't willing to let Vin slip too far back into silence. "You think you were going crazy?"

"No…not like, lock me up, crazy." Vin's hand caught Chris' and he tugged a little, made room for Chris to occupy the open part of the window seat. "Chasin' my tail a bit, I expect. Feel like if I could get one thing straight in my head, the others might start falling into line too. Missed the guys though. It was good to see 'em."

"Expect to see more," Chris warned.

Vin smiled a little at that, a warm, good kind of smile with no irony, like he was looking at a favored picture or memory. "Keep thinking I'm just a reminder like this…" he said settling Chris back against his chest, his good arm wrapped around Chris' waist. Chris started to hold himself up, to not put so much of weight on Vin, but Vin tightened his arm a little and Chris leaned back.

A reminder. He had a bum arm and a bum leg but his ribs were long since healed but the rest of Vin was as strong as ever. He took Chris' weight easily enough and he'd say if he was uncomfortable or cramping.

"I think they need the reminder that we all made it through that," Chris said after a moment, leaning his head back. "Maybe a reminder that you're back."

"Not quite, though," Vin said on a sigh but it had less of the bewildering confusion he'd shown earlier.

"You'll get there when you get there, Vin." Chris turned his head, dropping it back a little against Vin's shoulder and found Vin looking down at him. His eyes were glitter bright but calm, his face a little thinner making the hard line of his jaw and his cheek bones more pronounced. No, not a ghost, but there was a shadow on his face that had nothing to do with the lighting in the room.

He pulled Vin's head down, let their lips brush, the position too awkward for anything more than that. "Bed," he said, his voice husky and strained sounding to his own ears and Vin nodded, let Chris up and let himself be pulled up to his feet.

The nightly routine had to be seen to: tending the bandages, arranging pillows, but Vin's bed was smaller, forcing them closer together. No complaints from Chris there or even when he found himself urged down to lay across Vin's chest.

"I was never trying to get away from you," Vin murmured in the near darkness and Chris knew it was a lie. Maybe the first Vin had ever told him, but he accepted it for what he thought it really was: A lie that if Vin told himself often enough, would become the truth.

"If you were," he said, nuzzling at Vin's neck. "You're gonna have to try a hell of lot harder."

##  ~Chapter Nineteen~

  
**  
Thursday, 1:57 p.m., Our Savior Episcopal Church  
(61 days post SOG Op)**

The police tape was long gone, the front lawn of the church showing little sign of the vehicles and many booted feet that had torn up the ground, scarred the dirt through the ice and snow. There was green starting to show: crocuses and snowdrops were pushing up, the awkward stalks of hyacinths struggling for more and more of the sun they needed to bloom.

The windows were still covered with heavy plastic though; the new stained glass had yet to be delivered and installed, and anyone looking closely could see where the big front doors had been patched and filled, sanded and repainted.

Vin was a little surprised to find them unlocked, testing the heavy doors and having to lean on his cane to get enough leverage to pull the left one open. It stuck a little, and he glanced up, seeing where the big ornate hinge had been hammered back into place after a bullet had bent it.

He hadn't seen the interior from this angle. He hovered inside the door, just staring down along the rows of pews to the altar in the eastern nave. It was a long way.

Glancing over at the plastic-coated windows, he could see the building next door, and the window that looked down on the church. The view was wavery and indistinct through the plastic and he had to squint a little. Using his cane and one hand on the pews, he walked down the aisle toward the altar and stared upward, then back. His memory hadn't deceived him. The angle had been just as treacherous as he remembered it. He was lucky he hadn't taken one of the other hostage's heads off as well.

No…it was an exaggeration, he had better aim than that.

He used to.

He wasn't even close to being able to requalify and the bureau wouldn't even let him try for another four to six weeks. But that hadn't stopped him from pulling out Chris' old twenty-two a couple of times when he was alone, lining up some cans on a fallen log, just to see, just to try. He'd managed to knock out two of the six before his arm and shoulder tightened up so that he could barely hold the gun steady, much less hit what he was aiming at.

Paul had stepped up the range-of-motion exercises on his arm, added weights and stretching exercises that seemed to hurt more than the actual wound ever had, and warned him that he'd have to stretch the tendons in his shoulder carefully or he'd end up doing more -- maybe permanent -- damage. It was the same warning he'd been getting all along but as he put his body to the test, Vin could actually feel the shortened muscles pulling, burning, feeling like they might just tear free.

It wasn't the recoil this time, it was just pulling the trigger.

He dropped his gaze then slid into one of the pews, just looking around at the high ceiling and the remaining stained glass, the highly polished wood, the inscriptions around the ceiling and the small plaques that illustrated the stations of the cross. It was quiet here, even with the door to the street open.

The quiet didn't bother him quite so much any longer.

All in all, he and Chris had spent about a week in town. They'd headed out to the ranch a couple of times to pick up stuff, check on the horses. Putter. By the following Monday, they'd spent most of the afternoon there and just decided to stay the night. They'd gone back to the apartment the next day after therapy, but long after Chris had fallen asleep Vin had lain awake, listening.

It hadn't been difficult to let the night sounds fade into the darkness, staring at the shifting shadows on the ceiling as the clouds moved over the moon. A few cars, a short burst of music, voices on the street, the hum and clank of the ancient boiler as it forced steam into the radiators, all of it familiar and still reassuring. But he found himself listening for the brief intersects of silence, after the radiators had stopped knocking and there was a break in the traffic on the highway a few miles away.

He'd grinned at himself when the silence was interrupted by a snuffling snore from Chris who then immediately rolled over. Then he'd woken up wanting to know what Vin found so funny. Vin couldn't explain and after a few aborted attempts gave up and found a way other than questions to occupy Larabee's mouth.

They'd packed up and headed back to the ranch the next morning, stopping only long enough to put a forward on Vin's mail.

Vin wasn't entirely sure how he'd do once Chris went back to work -- if he went back to work. They had a little under a month left on his suspension, and Travis was already trying to see if he could pull strings to get it shortened. Buck was managing but he wasn't happy about it, no matter that Chris and Travis both were riding a silent bet that the big man would fall into the routine easily if he'd only quit resisting it. Chris was of a mind that Buck was due a promotion, and he probably could have it for the asking.

Vin was clearer than Chris or Travis that Buck wouldn't and didn't want it; not because of the responsibility but because it would break up the team. Buck's ambitions weren't geared toward that end and the fact that there were other qualified men and women in the ATF that did want that promotion -- badly -- gave him a lot of wiggle room. Just enough to squirm out of the promotion unless something else happened, like Chris turning in his resignation.

Once the topic was opened, they'd talked about it. The team was on the top of the reasons why it was a bad idea, Vin's uncertain recovery topped the list of reasons why Chris might quit anyway.

Vin didn't want to be the reason. He'd told Chris so and Chris' only answer had been that they'd wait and see how his requalification went.

It had been a non-answer and it had pissed Vin off a little since he still wasn't entirely sure he wanted to requalify. The lure of opening up a breeding farm appealed to him, but he didn't know if it was because it was a good idea, a dream he was keen on, or because it was a great fall-back plan. Maybe a little of all three.

Dr. Caplan told him to stop thinking of it as an either/or situation and try and think about he really did want and what he didn't want.

He didn't want to break up the team any more than Buck did. That much Vin understood with perfect clarity, so, without making a decision he'd started working on getting his arm and shoulder in shape just so he could requalify, or at least try, on the range.

It was something to do, a step forward, which Vin figured was something, even if it was a step in the wrong direction, but it did bring up all his earlier questions and doubts to the surface once more.

He'd cruised past the church a couple of times, once he'd been cleared to drive. He'd been glad the weather had gotten better and gave serious thought to trading in the old jeep for something newer, but the thought of adding a car payment when his employment status was so uncertain made him uneasy. He'd looked though, idly checking out the newer trucks he saw around town or in parking lots.

It was the first time, he realized, that he'd really been able to think of the future in terms of weeks or days or months instead of the nebulous time frame of when he'd get better, or at least hit the end range of his recovery.

Which had led him back to the church. With the future ahead of him looking to be more possible and real, settling the past, even the recent past, had become more important.

The day he'd called to ask Father Barrett if they could meet had left him in a tense knot of fear and uncertainty that he couldn't explain to Chris or to himself. Chris had offered to come with him and Vin had almost taken him up on it, not sure what he expected from the priest, not even sure what he wanted to say. For some odd reason Chris hadn't asked him that either. What are you going to say, Vin? Do you need to apologize or confess? If he condemns you for it, will you quit? If he absolves you of it, will you go? What difference is it going to make?

Chris had asked none of the questions that Vin struggled with.

"You want me to come with you?"

Just like that. They'd been washing the dishes after dinner, Chris at the sink and Vin at the table with towels, watching the ever growing puddle of water on the floor as Chris passed the plates back to him to dry.

"I don't know. Not even sure why I'm going."

Chris had looked at him for a long moment before nodding. "Okay. Well, when you know, tell me."

Vin hadn't pursued it any further or asked Chris exactly what he meant. He'd only called and made the appointment while Chris was out in the barn.

Then told him this morning as he got ready to leave.

"Should only be a couple of hours."

"You want me to meet you afterward?"

"Yeah. That would be good."

Chris had looked at him for a long moment, sipping at his coffee. If there was impatience there Vin didn't see it, but he did know Chris was thinking: 'I could still go with you.'

It had been its own relief that, not so much because Vin wanted Chris with him as much as he wanted to be with Chris. "We could…go in together. You could pick me up afterward. Maybe an hour."

"Sounds like a plan," Chris said and that slow smile had started, the one that alternately made Vin want to roll his eyes or grin back. Chris started laughing at him then, pushing his chair back to rise and come around to Vin's side of the table and bending low, bracing his hands on the table and on the back of Vin's chair. "You could have just asked," he said, a teasing glint in his eyes that was, nevertheless, a mild reproof. Acknowledging that Vin was still having trouble articulating what he wanted at any given moment.

"Thought I did." Maybe it was a game of sorts, Chris showing a patience Vin had never expected, nor really thought he needed -- not from Chris, but he'd wait Vin out. The next question in Vin's mind hadn't needed words, he'd only lifted his head and gotten exactly what he wanted, and reassurance or patience had been the last thing on Chris' mind as they'd moved from the kitchen to the bedroom and continued perfecting their non-verbal communication.

They'd left the breakfast dishes on the table when they'd left this morning.

They were a few minutes early for Vin's meeting with Father Barrett and once more Chris offered to wait. No easy thing for him either, staring at the church as Vin did. It was a visible reminder of an encounter all of them could have done without, as if the rocky and treacherous path they'd been following over the last couple of months had started here. At least, that was how Chris saw it. "Stupid to blame a place for all this..." Chris muttered as the truck idled at the curb.

"What did you say about wanting to find someplace to lay the blame?" Vin asked. "Makes it easier."

Chris had closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat rest. "Yeah." He rolled his head to open his eyes and look at his partner. Vin returned the gaze, not even glancing down when Chris' hand folded over his on the seat. "At least if I blame the church, I don't have to worry about it feeling guilty."

Which was far better than Chris blaming himself. Vin gave his hand a squeeze and eased out of the truck carefully. "See you in an hour or so."

Chris nodded and Vin closed the door, not looking back as he entered the building -- not even when he heard the truck pull away from the curb.

The rustling of the plastic covering the windows faded from his perception as he sat. There was a draft from the open door and he gave half a thought to going back and closing it, wondering if the sanctuary would be totally silent then. He always thought of churches that way. Big, quiet places that livened up once a week with parishioners, voices, sermons, singing. The local Catholic church in Purgatorio -- housed in the basement of the area's underfunded rec center -- always had singing on Sunday. Vin could hear it if he opened his front windows and listened very carefully. Not clear enough to make out the words, but he could hear the rise and fall of voices as they echoed off the buildings. Most of the hymns were in Spanish and there was something about the language, about the softly formed vowels that appealed to him. Or maybe it was just because most of his Hispanic neighbors were so serious about their faith.

What faith Vin did have maintained only a passing acquaintance with religion as far as he was concerned. His grandfather had never been much of a church-goer although he'd taken Vin into town for the big days -- Christmas and Easter -- but Vin was of a mind that his grandfather had also liked the singing best, as opposed to the sermons. It was kind of like a cheap concert, because he'd always found a dollar or two for the collection plate. And afterwards they'd go to one of the diners in town and have a sit-down meal. If his mother had been religious or ever went to church, Vin couldn't remember.

He'd gone to church on Sundays while in the orphanage, but there'd rarely been singing and all the kids sat in the back of the church, dressed in the best the state could provide, until the ACLU or someone had made a squawk about the state sending the kids to church. It had seemed damned silly to Vin then, and he'd kind of liked getting to go, just for the bus ride, and for the cookies the ladies had set out afterward. He wasn't too sure any of the preacher's sermons had sunk in. Then it had been off to foster homes, where his foster parents might or might not have gone to church. He couldn't remember which ones had insisted and which ones had just looked on Sunday as another day of the week, time to get caught up on yardwork or laundry or shopping. Sunday became the day before he had to go to school and that had made it even less appealing.

He'd never really given church-going a whole lot of thought. He knew Nathan and Josiah went regularly, when they weren't working. JD was likely to pop into a Sunday service too, but usually with Casey and her aunt. Tracking the bombing cases over the last few months, Vin had probably spent more time in more different churches than any time since he was a kid, but other than the fact that they were targets, he had only applied what they'd known about the bombings to the individual crime sites. Academic assessment, Josiah would say, taking in the fact of the buildings, the denominations, the staff and personnel of the targets in hopes of finding some kind of commonality. They'd all been big, all been fairly affluent, some of them in the process of fundraising and expanding.

Which had apparently been Hollinger's beef with them. They'd found nothing connecting him to any other group and no better luck finding out where he'd obtained the old dynamite. None of the local grading companies were likely to think of the ATF too fondly for awhile, even the ones that had been guilty of nothing. It hadn't been dropped though, just turned over to the forensics people to try and track down Hollinger's sources.

The raid on the Juarez estate had pushed the church bombings off the front page for awhile. Now they had congress squawking about an inquiry, the office of Homeland Security wanted to know what was going on and they had brass from Washington flying in every other week according to Buck. It was no wonder Travis and McCall wanted Chris back on the job, and Chris just as glad to be out of it.

But he was itching to do something. He'd already repainted the guest bedroom and had taken on a half dozen long-neglected projects around the ranch. But it was all just to occupy time. Waiting for Vin to decide -- or have it decided for him -- what he was going to do.

The only thing Vin was clear on was that he was where he wanted to be. All the anxieties surrounding his job, and his conscience, were still there, but he'd discovered that living with someone didn't require that he do much of anything but enjoy it. Oh, they squabbled a bit -- Chris worried about Vin overdoing, Vin uncertain how to handle having someone knowing so much of what he wanted or needed without asking. It really hadn't changed much -- from laundry to grocery shopping, he hadn't realized how much they'd been in each other's pockets over the past year. But the not having to worry about getting back to his apartment, of if he'd be too tired to drive, that was fine. Falling asleep and waking up to Chris' presence. That was fine too. Mighty fine.

Far easier than Vin had expected. He may not have any idea where he was going, but he surely knew how to find his way home, no matter what.

Sound did carry in the big sanctuary, and Vin heard Father Barrett approach before he saw the priest emerge from the door at the front of the chapel. He got to his feet awkwardly and Father Barrett hesitated, taking in the sight of him. The bruises had long since healed but the cuts on his face and the very obvious cane were enough clues for the priest to realize this was not entirely the same man he'd thanked with Deke Hollinger's blood still on his clothes; Vin fought the urge to hide the cane and extended his hand instead.

"I appreciate your meeting me, Father," he said.

Barrett's hand was warm and rough and he clasped Vin's wrist briefly as well. "It was no problem, Agent Tanner. Did you want to meet here? Or we could go to my office. It's not far…" he added quickly glancing down at Vin's leg.

He couldn't see anything but the cane, Vin knew. He'd left the bulky bandages under sweats behind weeks ago; now he wore soft, faded jeans, but the fit was looser than usual. "Either one's fine, Father…I…" Vin said and then stalled. Even in making the appointment he hadn't been quite sure of what he wanted to say, what he might want to ask. It had occurred to him that he could just tell Father Barrett that he'd nearly killed him, could have even written him a letter, but that seemed even colder than the decision to shoot in and of itself. Maybe he did want absolution.

Father Barrett studied him for a moment then made the decision, sitting in the pew in front of Vin and leaning over the back. "I'm rather partial to the sanctuary myself," he said and gestured for Vin to sit down as well. "How can I help you, Agent Tanner?"

"It's Vin, sir…just Vin," Vin said, and then stalled again. "I'm not sure…I don't want to bring up bad memories, Father, but…"

Barrett waited, slightly tense. "Is this more of the investigation? I hadn't heard much about Mr. Hollinger after…and it's been…awhile." He stopped as well and relaxed a little bit, studying Vin.

"Not exactly. Well, no…it doesn't really have anything to do with the investigation. I mean it does…but…" Vin stopped again and took a deep breath, gazing upward at the plastic covered windows. Father Barrett followed his gaze.

"We should have them installed in time for Easter," Father Barrett said after a moment. "We've had to hire a security guard to keep any eye on the place at night…when it's so open. You'd think a church would be safe from vandals, from that sort of thing…," he said and brought his gaze back down. "But…Mr. Hollinger proved that a church is just another building. There's no special protection here," he added a little sadly.

"Yeah," Vin said softly. "Not so sure I believe that."

"Agent Tanner -- Vin." Father Barrett laid his forearms on the back of the pew. "Is this about Mr. Hollinger? Or is there some other…need you have?" he asked.

Vin gave him a brief smile. "Seemed more important before I got here. You been doing all right since then, Father?"

"I've…had my moments. We very much appreciated the counselors the ATF offered to the congreation. My parishioners still talk about it -- about Mr. Hollinger. A few have…been unwilling to return. Others have been coming more often. My morning masses have never been quite so full. You're not an Episcopalian, are you, Vin?"

"No, sir. Never been much of one for church, I guess. I mean, I don't mind 'em and this one's real nice. Didn't get much of a look at it then." He glanced toward the window again and Barrett's gaze followed his, once more, a puzzled look on his face that smoothed out after a moment and he looked at Vin..

"No. I wouldn't think so…I could see you. Up there."

That surprised Vin a little.

"I've never…I served as a chaplain during Vietnam, but I never left the states," Father Barrett said quietly. "I've never been quite that close to…I fear I am both awed and a little appalled by your profession, Agent Tanner."

Vin took that in and nodded. "Yeah. Me too. Served for a few years before this…ten years or so ago. It's real different than the army."

"And that's where you got your skill with a rifle?"

Father Barrett was studying him, nothing much on his face but his eyes rested on Vin's face, like he was trying to see through him, or into him.

"Got better with it. Was always pretty good," he said and met that gaze, feeling his muscles tighten. "Don't miss very often."

"For which I am very thankful."

Vin couldn't have taken a breath if his life depended on it, but there it was. "I missed that day, Father."

Barrett blinked. He opened his mouth and closed it again, sitting up a little straighter. "I know there were two shots…Mr. Tanner--"

"Them bells saved your life, Father. Not me," Vin said it all in a rush and still had a hard time regaining his breath. "Maybe you didn't need to know that, but I needed to tell you."

Father Barrett took that in slowly, staring at Vin then turning his head to look at the window, before turning all the way around to stare forward.

Vin didn't move, not sure what he'd been expecting. Saying it hadn't released anything, there was no sense of relief, really. If anything his guilt increased. There was no real reason for Father Barrett to know it. He'd survived.

Father Barrett laid his hands on the pew in front of him and pulled himself upward, keeping his back to Vin. He eased out and headed toward the front of the church to pause before the padded steps that separated the pews from the altar.

Vin watched him cross himself and go to his knees carefully, bowing his head over the railing. Vin looked up and around seeing the single candle over the altar, encased in glass to keep it from being blown out by the draft. The chain swayed slightly, with the rippling of the plastic.

He got up quietly, trying not to let his cane clunk against the wooden pew. It hadn't been anywhere near an hour. He'd have to wait for Chris, but there was a coffee shop in the building next door and he'd be able to see Chris' truck from there.

It was possible Father Barrett might file a complaint. Might rattle some cages as if any more of that were needed. Little as Vin liked Jay Randall, or wanted to help the man in any way, this might be one round he'd win: get the acceptable losses clause rewritten maybe. Vin couldn't really seem to find anything to argue with in that, and it rankled a bit to be in agreement with Jay Randall about anything.

"Agent Tanner."

He stopped and turned. Sound sure carried in this place. Father Barrett had barely raised his voice. He was still at the altar but he'd twisted a bit, looking down the aisle at Vin. He got to his feet slowly, looking as stiff as Vin felt.

"Did you come here to make a confession?"

Vin gave it some thought. Maybe he had, but probably not the kind of confession Father Barrett was thinking about. Not the kind Josiah made. "I don't know. I didn't…I didn't come here expecting to be forgiven for anything, just thought…" He didn't know what he thought, but even as he struggled with it, he realized something had changed. He lifted his chin toward the single suspended candle. "What's that for?"

Father Barrett looked shaken, then he looked up. "It's a vigil candle. To signify the presence of the sacrament, the presence of the Holy Spirit, if you like."

Vin nodded and met Father Barrett's gaze again. "I just figured…" he glanced up at the candle again and felt it then. Nothing so mystical as a presence, but a glimmer of understanding. "I thought maybe you'd like to be thanking the right person. I guess I needed to make sure I was too."

Father Barrett studied him and then turned back to the altar, briefly, looking it over, then back at the window. "You may well be right, Agent…Vin. I'm not sure…it never occurred to me, " he leaned against the first pew. "I have been thanking God, daily, that no one was hurt more than they were. I've been praying for Mr. Hollinger too -- asking for forgiveness, ease for his soul from whatever demons he carried. The anger that drove him to this. And for you," he added, but his eyes lingered on Vin's cane.

Those prayers hadn't done Vin much good, but he didn't say it. "That was all, Father."

"It's bothered you--"

"It bothered me then, but I'd have done it," Vin said. "Like I said, weren't me, Father. One or many, that's the way it plays out sometimes. I don't like it, but…that's how it works."

"Yes," Father Barrett said quietly and stood up, approaching Vin slowly. "I do know that's how it works, Vin. I'd be a poor priest if I didn't. But…whether you want it or not, I--" he offered his hand up and Vin took it. The clasp was still rough but slightly clammy now. "I can forgive it."

Vin nodded and released his hand, but Father Barrett reached for his shoulder and Vin flinched, but the man only rested his hand there. "Go in peace," he said and lifted his hand to offer a silent blessing.

Vin didn't flinch at that, accepting it for what it was. "Thank you…" he said and backed away a few steps before turning. He let his hand trail over the rounded ends of the pews until he reached the door. He didn't look back until he had to turn and close the door and caught a glimpse of Father Barrett sitting down in the pew again.

It was warmer out but Vin still felt the chill and looked toward the coffee shop, ready to head there when he heard a horn and saw Chris making a u-turn from across the street.

He found himself smiling as Chris pulled up. "You been waiting?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Filled up the tank," Chris said, settling Vin's cane behind the seat in easy reach. "How'd it go?" he was asking for more than details and Vin leaned back, securing his seatbelt.

"It was a shitty angle," he said after a moment.

Chris let the truck idle. "Yeah, it was."

"He forgave me," Vin said more quietly.

"Did you need him to?"

Shaking his head, Vin glanced back at the church. "No. Not really."

"Forgiven yourself?"

"No. Not really."

Chris reached over and caught his hand, examining it, before curling his fingers around it. "Forgiven me?"

Vin squeezed Chris' hand. "For the order? Yeah…," he said, and felt his lips curve upward. "For making me beg this morning…not yet. Maybe not ever."

Chris' mouth twitched and he nodded, squeezing Vin's hand once before putting the truck in gear. "Guess I'll have to make it up to you."

"Guess you will."

Chris checked for traffic before spinning the wheel around and heading them home.

##  ~Chapter Twenty~

  
**  
March 14th, Tulsa Oklahoma, Willow Estates, 11:50 a.m.**

 

Iron gates rolled smoothly back once the pass code was entered correctly. The late-model Honda looked slightly out of place with its "save the whales" bumper sticker and the bright yellow smiley face ball protector on the extended antenna. But even the hired help had to drive. The buses didn't come out this far.

The estates weren't quite that -- big houses, a couple of acres of land -- but the community boasted that it was gated and there was a security guard on duty at the front of the community, 24/7, paid for by the not insignificant homeowner's association dues paid annually, due on January 15th with a fifteen percent late charge for anyone who forgot.

The house itself was different from its neighbors; other homes were two and three-story miniature mansions instead of the split level sprawling ranch. There was no bonus room over the garage and the broad front stairs were partially blocked off by the slow incline of a wheelchair ramp. No thrown together bit of plywood and scrap lumber this. It was concrete and railed and wide enough to accommodate an ambulance stretcher when the occupant needed it.

Which had been more frequent as of late.

The Honda pulled up close to the stairs and parked, the soft chime of the seat belt warning muted but musical. The trunk was popped as the housekeeper opened the front door to smile at the visitor.

Maria Anetta Silvia liked the Señor's nurse-therapist. She was quiet but cheerful, and the Señor's speech had improved so much since she had started coming to see him. "Buenos dias, Maria!" she called out and Maria waved.

"Do you need some help, Señorita Lucy?" she asked, taking a few steps as Lucy Griffith pulled out the big satchel of supplies from the trunk.

"Uh…no, I think I can manage," Lucy said, tucking her shoulder length brown hair behind her ears. "Oh, oh…my keys -- my purse," she said struggling with the satchel and trying to close the trunk. Maria chuckled and came down the steps to open the passenger door and retrieve the missing items. "Oh, thank you, Maria. It would be just like me to lock my keys in the car. How are you?" she asked as the two of them made their way up the stairs.

"Very good, Señorita. We've had such pretty weather. Señor Gonzales is out in the sun room now. Padre Cummings came by to have lunch with him. Have you eaten?"

"I have. Stopped on the way," Lucy said as they entered the foyer. "I'm going to drop this stuff out in the workout room. Would you tell Mr. Gonzales that I'm here, please?"

"Si," Maria said but followed her anyway, still carrying her purse.

On the blue prints, the room had been meant to be a second parlor, or a library, but from the very beginning, it had been built with the equipment and special needs of the owner considered. There were parallel bars and weights, mats and exercise equipment. Maria kept it clean and well stocked with towels and the lotions and creams the home therapists had recommended.

Lucy Griffith move around the open sunny room like it was a second home.

Maria left her to get set up for the session to follow and went to find her employer.

He was a different man than she had first come to work for. That man had been crippled and pitiful enough to elicit prayers from Maria's gentle soul. Not an old man, but he was so much like the creature in the movie her daughter liked, the animated version of the Hunchback of Notre Dame…Elena had called him such, Quasimodo -- the name spilling out of her five year old mouth before Maria could stop her.

And Señor Gonzales had only smiled and then laughed in that rough, almost choking sound that passed for laughter, but his eyes had been warm as he greeted Elena and he was still Señor Quasimodo to her, some two years later and a favorite visitor of the Señor's. He did not mind the children and he was not embarrassed for them to see him. If there were birthdays to be had, often they were held here, at the Señor's expense although the children most often liked the big pool in the back yard and the wide expanse of lawn that was perfect for Frisbee or kickball, or just running.

It was a pity the Señor had no children of his own. No family at all, as far as Maria knew. There were only a few very special friends and the occasional visit from his lawyer or some other business acquaintance.

Father Cummings was the most frequent visitor, after the staff and the home therapists. He came several times a month and often stayed for a few days. The Señor did not go to church, but the father gave him communion. Maria had occasionally joined them, along with other staff in the very small room set aside for the Señor's books and his computer. It was where he spent most of his time; the larger bulk of the house was not much used.

But Luis Gonzales was not the man she had first met either. Several surgeries, and a great deal of therapy had him able to stand a little straighter, to move more easily using a walker. They used the wheelchair only for long trips or when he was not feeling so well, which was happening more often. But he could use his computer to type out instructions and even speak somewhat better, using a small device that picked up vibrations from his throat rather than his tongueless mouth. He sounded like Darth Vader, the children all said, but he could be understood.

Lucy Griffith had been concentrating as much on his speech over the last few weeks as his physical abilities. She was very nearly as good as the Señor's prior therapist, Michelle, although Maria had never felt as comfortable with her as she did Lucy. Michelle had been too sharp, too calculating and Maria was always afraid she was trying to take advantage of the Señor with her brazen ways. But despite Maria's dislike, Michelle had been very good. Demanding of the Señor, even brutal at times in getting him to walk, to improve his strength after his surgery. She hadn't seemed nearly as calculating or cold when the Señor had called the staff together and had walked, with only his walker, all across the living room and foyer, through the house and been able to get his own glass of water in the kitchen -- with no help from anyone.

Maria still didn't like Señorita Michelle, but she did admire her work.

Lucy was very different. She looked more like a school teacher than a therapist, was soft-spoken and quick to smile, her brown eyes laughing more than her mouth. She was a little plumper and softer than the athletic Michelle, but just as strong. Maria though she might be very pretty if she cared as much for her appearance as her work. She tended to dress in loose long sleeved shirt and baggy pants or full skirts with sneakers. It made her look frumpish.

But the Señor liked her and they spent a good deal of time just talking -- Lucy forcing him to hold real conversations to improve his speech. They went shopping sometimes too, to make the Señor interact with more people. The exercises though, still sometimes left the Señor near tears. The long atrophied muscles required strenuous work and Lucy was no less adamant than Michelle had been that he complete every drill, over and over.

Still, Maria suspected that the Señor liked Lucy better too, maybe more than was entirely appropriate since Lucy worked for him, but she had caught them more than once, holding hands while they talked. If Lucy saw her she would immediately blush and then start stretching his fingers.

But Maria knew better. It wasn't her place to say anything and the Señor was a good man, a kind man. Not many would be able to see beyond his disabilities and see that, to love him for the man he was, rather than the body he appeared to be. But he was also very wealthy and that always worried Maria a little. If she had to guess though, she would have said that Michelle Sanders was more likely to pursue the man for his money than Lucy was. And it wasn't her money. The Señor was generous to the churches and charities in town -- none could fault him if he wanted to spend his money on a lady friend, or a wife.

Father Cummings walked with them back to the exercise room, his steps slow and paced to the Señor's, but more from age than infirmity. The Señor had often asked the Father to move into the house, but the Padre insisted he was fine in his little monastery.

He took his leave after a very short exchange of greetings with Lucy and then Maria escorted him out. She couldn't be sure, but she didn't think Father Cummings liked Lucy as well as the Señor and Maria herself did. But then, he was more protective of Luis Gonzales than anyone. Had known him the longest. And he was old. No doubt he was afraid of Luis being taken advantage of as well. A friend would be alert to such a thing.

Lucy waited until she saw Father Cummings' car leave, before going to the door of the workout room to lock it. Luis Gonzales watched her from his seat on the raised exercise table.

"The staff won't come in here unless it's an emergency," he said, the distortion of the Voxx device making his words seem far away and like they came from an intercom.

"Better safe than sorry. Wouldn't want to start any nasty little kitchen rumors," Lucy said, returning to him and removing her glasses as well as the loose over shirt she wore, revealing a form fitting tank that molded itself to her breasts. "Off with your clothes, boy," she said, with a grin, and reached to help him pull off the over large sweater, revealing the pale scarred chest and back. She helped him lay back, and found the massage oil, warming it between her hands before applying it to the scarred skin.

Luis kept the Voxx at hand but had little need of it as Lucy worked the tight sore muscles of his back. If she lingered a little longer over his scars, he didn't mind. He hands were firm and strong and even when she worked to break up the tightened tendons and knots, bringing some pain, he knew it would pass. She rolled him over eventually and worked on his chest, fingers doing a delicate dance across the skin of his ribs.

There was pleasure here, but no more than of the skin -- he had nothing else to offer her, even were he so inclined. He liked her better with shorter hair, when she looked almost boyish, but there was no mistaking she was a woman. A contradictory, dangerous, but ultimately loyal woman. Without the loose shirt, her own scars were more visible, a long history etched in her flesh, of abuse and violence, some of it self- inflicted. He'd seen them all once. His own might be more debilitating but Lucy's scars spoke of long years of the kind of torture Luis Gonzales had only suffered once. Both of them were still recovering, but Luis suspected he was closer to it than Lucy Griffith could ever be.

She stripped him bare and worked on his legs as well, touching him where none but nurses and doctors had in many years. The contact was pleasure enough and he only protested when she was done and wiping the excess oil from his skin with a warm towel.

Then she helped him dress. Put him through his exercises with all the compassion of a drill sergeant, gave him water when he sweated, caught him when he stumbled and finally let him rest. She put her shirt back on, unlocked the door and with her purse over her shoulder, walked him back to his study where the computer waited to help him with the rest of his therapy.

She was a quiet and mousy and deferential, as was expected, when Maria came into bring them coffee and some sandwiches to nibble on. Luis could only marvel at the change in his personal tormentor, in his personal angel. From the beginning, Maria had all but adopted her. He often thought his housekeeper to be both kind and smart, but maybe not so sharp. Not like the honed-blade sharp of Lucy Griffith, who Luis though could probably melt into the woodwork if she chose. Maria, had she recognized Lucy's previous incarnation, had once called Michelle a witch, a sorceress. She hadn't like Michelle at all.

But then Lucy wasn't Michelle, not really. Not any longer, or not right now, he thought.

"I brought you something," she said softly when Maria had left once more. She reached into her purse and drew out a small jar and set it on the desk. "I thought about waiting for your birthday…but, this is an anniversary of sorts, isn't it?"

Luis stared at the jar then at the calendar on his desk. Lucy's hand covered his when they started shaking. "Shh…shh…it's alright, Luis. You forget so easily…but I thought it appropriate," she said, giving the little jar a nudge to set the contents sloshing a bit, two small grayish masses floating in formaldehyde. "I couldn't get yours back, but I thought bringing you Anthony's cajoñes was appropriate." She leaned in and brushed a kiss on his cheek, licking away the salty tears. "Happy anniversary, honey," she murmured and then started laughing.

After a moment, Luis Gonzales' cackling laughter joined hers.

Down the hallway, Maria Annetta Silvia smiled. Yes. Señorita Lucy, she was very good for the Señor.

** March 21st , Denver Federal Building, 2:30 p.m.**

 

The file Travis slid across his desk to Chris was no surprise. Nor were the scores really. Vin was better, but not a hundred percent. Cleared for desk duty and limited investigative field work, but he wouldn't be climbing up into any high spaces for another month or so and certainly not with a high-powered rifle.

But the scores were better than they'd been two weeks ago, on both his physical and at the weapons certification. The physical would take time and Chris was pretty much resigned to the fact that at least some physical therapy might forever be a part of Vin's life, as well as his own.

The arms certification was a little more complicated. Although Dr. Caplan had certified him mentally fit to return to duty, she'd also noted that she didn't think Vin's reluctance to pick up a rifle and use it with the efficiency and accuracy that he'd exhibited before was entirely due to physical limitations. Chris didn't disagree with her. What he did think was that when and if it became necessary, Vin's accuracy would improve dramatically. He'd told both Vin and Travis as much, but the latter, at least, wasn't likely to authorize Vin for that duty until his scores were better.

"I've got him scheduled to retest in another two weeks. He signed up for open range time. We'll see," Travis said. "In the meantime, I don't have anything that requires it on the docket. Get your team up to speed. If it becomes necessary, we'll draft a sniper from another team. He's got six months, on the outside, before I'll be forced to reclassify him."

"I'll tell him," Chris said, pushing the file back. "Anything else?"

Travis hesitated then spread his fingers wide on his desk. "I've given permission for Harold Moore down in Research and Forensics to talk to Sanchez. I'd appreciate it if you'd not try and scare him off. It'll be Josiah's choice but I don't want to lose him," Travis said, watching Chris' face carefully.

That one was nearly as tough and Chris bit back his first heated reply. Josiah didn't want to be transferred or reclassified, but he was healing up even more slowly than Vin. Right now the only thing he was certified for was desk work, research and even that was limited. Passing a physical proficiency wasn't even on deck yet since the man still required a cane.

But Team 7 was a field team and neither Travis nor the bureau could keep an active roster down for too long. Their options were to replace Josiah if he couldn't pass the physical. Unlike Vin, his weapons certification hadn't been that much of a challenge, but making it through the rest of the PT requirement would be for some time yet.

Chris thought it more likely Josiah would retire if he couldn't secure his place on the team -- and he'd do it voluntarily rather than hold his teammates back. Between his age and his injury, he could take an early retirement with disability, but it wouldn't be his first choice, nor would it be Chris' choice at all. But the fact remained that Josiah's position was more precarious than Vin's.

"He'd be good in R&amp;F," he said instead.

Travis gave him a brief but warm smile. "I don't want to lose him either, Chris, and Moore's got a good pitch. Sanchez has the seniority and experience to slip into a manager's position in pretty short order. And you wouldn't be losing him as a resource."

It wouldn't be the same and they both knew it. Hartman had cost Team 7 in more ways than one, had cost the bureau too and Chris' only comfort was the man wasn't around to gloat over it. "You talked to Josiah?"

"Not yet…I'd like you to do it," Travis said and Chris sat back. "He'll get the same extension Tanner has - six months. That gives him -- and you -- time to see if there's a fit anywhere. Keep your options, and his, open."

"I'll talk to him," Chris agreed, the agreement bitter in his mouth and his blood. "But… ask Moore to wait until Josiah calls him. Deal?"

"Fair enough," Travis agreed. "One more thing," he said and handed Chris a slim report folder. "Joint operation with the southern region in a few weeks. I'll send the files down. We're seeing a lot of activity along the Gulf of Mexico. I'm expecting something to break. I'll want your team on it," Travis said and picked up a thicker file to hand it to Chris. "You can start with the background."

Chris gave him a wry grin. "Business as usual?"

"We can only hope. Have a good weekend."

"You too, sir," Chris said and tucking the file under his arm headed down toward his own offices.

Which were loud. He paused just beyond the glass-fronted walls. God only knew what they were arguing about, but whatever it was had Josiah laughing loudly while Buck and Ezra tried to out-volume themselves. He could only pick out bits of it, but it was something regarding The Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Vin was occasionally popping a wadded up ball of paper at Buck and JD was gathering up the missiles and lobbing them at Ezra who managed to bat them away without losing his focus on his point. Nathan was watching them all with a long-suffering look on his face.

"Not one of you has mentioned the Miracles or the Jackson five, Diana Ross and the Supremes" he interjected. "White boys…" he added in mock disgust.

"As much as I may admire their music, Mr. Jackson, they are no longer playing together. Miss Ross has been absent from the mainstream music scene for some time," Ezra said.

"Hah!" Buck crowed. "Neither have the Beatles! Because There's only two left and they don't play together."

"Yet they are still making music, both Paul and Ringo have released albums within the last year and have toured," Ezra said with a glint in his eye.

Chris watched them, studying each face. The rivalry was friendly, it was stupid, and no less normal than they'd been a few months ago. Outwardly. But the strain was still there. Josiah's cane was the most obvious sign, Vin's limp another indication that they hadn't really gained back all the ground they'd lost. But maybe they'd taken new ground. Ezra was far less distant, and Nathan less judgmental. JD was maybe a little less exuberant and that bothered Chris a lot more than he wanted to admit. Ugly things tended to make a man look inward more than outward and while it made JD no less of an asset to the team nor diminished him as a friend, Chris would have spared him that if he could.

Spared all of them, including himself. Ezra had been more right than he knew and Chris was still mulling over how the depth of commitment and caring his team showed for one another made them tighter and smarter, it also made them infinitely more vulnerable to loss, and the fear of it could undermine them in small ways. He feared they were headed for a break-up no matter how he and Travis tried to keep them together and while the thought bothered him, it didn't bother him as much as it might once have done. His own pride wanted them to go out as the best of the best if they could, rather than under the impression that this last case had broken them. But his pride was something he would toss off in a minute rather than let it rule the decisions he made for his team and his men.

He was far less worried about a fight with the bureau over it than he was the resistance he knew he'd get from the six men engaged in the good-natured verbal wrestling match in front of him.

It all escalated again and Chris shook his head. Business as usual, indeed. Putting two fingers to his mouth he let loose a whistle that cut through the rising voices. "Unless Paul, Ringo or the Rolling Stones are running guns, take this out of the office," he said and came in, thumping the file down on the edge of Josiah's desk. "New case. Nathan, Josiah, you're on background. Buck, JD, run down logistics. Vin, Ezra, you're on current contacts. Break it up today, start on Monday," he said and headed for his office. It took a moment and Chris kept his grin to himself, when the first congratulations to Vin rang out and there was a lot of backslapping. He looked back then, caught Vin's eye and winked, the smile he got in return making him both warm and a little worried.

Not because Vin wasn't ready to come back, only because now it was Chris turn to worry if it was a good thing or not. But they had six months to figure it out.

He cut them loose early, caught the inevitable invitation to hit Inez's Saloon and celebrate a little. Vin looked willing and so they went.

Their usual table was open and on hearing Vin's news, Inez bought the first round, giving him a kiss on the cheek that was probably as much calculated to get Buck begging again as to congratulate Vin.

Vin took the nudging and teasing in stride, occasionally shooting back his own sharp-tongued retort, but with far less willingness to engage than he might once have been. He wasn't so much pensive, but Chris had a hard time trying to classify what it was that seemed different. Nathan had only noted that he was quieter, if it were possible. Ezra's opinion was that Vin was more contemplative. Both of them had offered up their opinions unasked and Chris had to wonder what had prompted either man to speak up.

Buck gave him a nudge and they headed to the bar together to get the next round of pitchers. They'd been here long enough for the regular Friday after work crowd to start showing up and Inez and her staff were busy, the actual bar crowded and Chris found himself shoulder to shoulder with Buck while they waited for Inez to draw off the two pitchers.

Buck glanced back at the table, where the remaining five were bent closer together talking about something. Vin no longer needed his cane, but he was still limping slightly after a long day. Josiah, on the other hand, did still need a cane and was on about the same rehab schedule as Vin. "Will we lose Josiah if he can't pass?" Buck asked as quietly as he could.

Knowing Buck was neither psychic nor likely to have gotten anything from Travis' secretary --yet -- Chris could only smile in wonder at his partner's instincts. "We'll jump that fence when we have to. For anything in the field we might have to bring someone else in. Travis is willing to wait. I'm betting on Josiah, though, " Chris said and fished out cash from his wallet for the pitchers.

Buck caught up the fresh, cold glasses. "Good to know. Vin looks …damn. You must be keeping him happy. He looks as content as a cat with a pitcher of cream," Buck said with a broad grin, giving Chris another nudge and a wink, and Chris looked too, to find Vin looking at him.

Huh.

Maybe that was it then. A crowded, noisy bar and Vin looked to have carved out someplace quiet, calm in the madness. It was something Chris hadn't seen in so long he hadn't recognized it. It was still different though, he thought, as he and Buck reached their table and set down the pitchers and mugs. Vin reached for one of each, he and Ezra splitting the pouring duties before settling back in his chair to sip.

"What?" Vin asked, nudging him, and Chris realized he was staring. "I got a bug on me or something?"

"Or something," Chris said without really answering and Vin only shook his head at Chris' grin.

They stayed only long enough to finish their beers -- the whole group of them moving as one toward the doors. Earlier than usual, but the seven of them strangely reluctant to break up again. "We should do something this weekend," JD piped up, grinning at all of them and the only one not too self-conscious to put voice to the feeling. "A game or…a cookout or…"

"A trip to the museum. There is a Degas exhibit…"

Buck made a pained sound and Ezra grinned at him. "Nudes, Buck. Nudes."

"Yeah?"

Chris chuckled at that, knowing Buck was putting one over on Ezra. If there were nudes in the collection, Buck knew about them and probably had since about age eleven. "You all know where the ranch is. Anyone shows up before noon and I'll personally kick your ass."

"Was that an invitation, boss?" Josiah asked, "Or an order?"

"Closest you're gonna get to an invite," Vin said. "Beer we got…"

"Steaks we can get," Ezra offered.

"Ribs…sausage. Bratwurst," Buck suggested and Chris only dropped his gaze smiling at his shoes. Promises were made as they started moving toward their cars, the night mild and surprising warm for this early in Denver's spring.

"We'll need to stop at the store," Vin said as they finally broke up, the hollers of "goodnight" and "See you tomorrow" as warm as the night breeze.

"We can do it tomorrow. Why do you think I told them not to show up before noon?"

"I figured we'd be busy," Vin said as he slid into the passenger side of the truck. "Just not shopping."

"I think we can manage a bit of both," Chris said and felt the warm tingle at the idea. Flirty and suggestive, Vin's voice echoed his own desires. Sunday they'd sleep in late maybe. He had nothing on his mind at all but being home. No therapy, no work. Hopefully nothing much at all except a welcome interruption of friends and family sprawled over their furniture and trashing their house. Perfect.

Chris didn't press the speed limit, feeling the need to draw the drive home out, as if it could make the weekend longer instead of shorter. Uncertainty still dogged both of them, but Chris wished he could put it off until Monday, and Vin looked willing to put it off indefinitely.

"Travis says six months before he'll have to reclassify you."

Vin sighed. "Yeah. I got the memo. Still thinking about modifying the stock. If it could get approved."

"If it brings your scores back up, I'm thinking Travis and McCall will both sign off on it, but that's not really the problem is it?"

Vin didn't answer, turning his head to gaze out the window. Chris sighed softly, and reached over to let his hand stroke the nape of Vin's neck, a slow, gentle massage that had Vin looking back again and relaxing somewhat. "Kinda worried that even if I get my scores back up…when it counts, it won't matter."

"I think you're making a bigger thing of it than you need to," Chris said removing his hand as he took the exit leading them home. "I think that if it came down to it…my life, Buck's Ezra -- any of them. Civilian…you wouldn't even think about it."

"Don't exactly want to be in that position to have to find out you're wrong."

Chris agreed with him to some extent, but it was still more a case of Vin's equilibrium being off than his aim. "Borrowing trouble, again?"

"Seems to have become a habit," Vin said sourly.

Chris didn't argue with him and changed the subject to what they would need to get at the store, stopping to write it all down when he finally pulled into the drive and up to the house. Vin got out before him, taking charge of seeing to the animals Chris changed from shirt and slacks to sweats and a t-shirt and getting a fire going. He poured out a couple of shots of whiskey when Vin returned and stripped off his jacket and boots. They'd eaten at the saloon and as with the long drive, the sofa beckoned, offering quiet and peace. Vin took the corner, Chris settling against him like a favorite pillow, which he was.

The crackling fire lulled them both, Vin's body relaxing, one hand rubbing along Chris' back and shoulder in an idle pattern and rhythm, his other balancing the whiskey glass on the arm of the sofa. He'd lift it occasionally and take a sip. Chris could feel him swallow, feel him breathe. Feel him solid and real. It wasn't something he wanted to take for granted. Not that it was likely, Vin had a tendency to surprise him in odd ways, the same way their relationship had been the surprise of the century. Feeling this deeply about another person wasn't something Chris had ever expected to do again. It was something he'd never expected to let himself do again. The risks were too high, the possibility of loss too great.

But the rewards were sweet. Another thirty years of this and he might stop being afraid.

"Falling asleep on me, cowboy?" Vin's voice was low and warm and his hand stopped, movement reduced to his fingers rubbing at the small, tight tendons at Chris' neck.

"I might." Chris didn't really want to fall asleep, what he wanted was to take this chunk of time and make it last, lengthen it, let the rest of the worlds stop for a little while or go on without them. The last he could make happen he thought, but he wasn't ready to commit to it. Neither was Vin. Both of them seemed to have agreed to let things move as they would, like a slow running stream. They could drift for a little bit, see if anything interesting came up.

Drifting was good. The way Vin's hands drifted along his back, the way he found his mouth drifting toward Vin's. Definitely interesting.

Vin's glass clinked on the end-table and he reached down to pull Chris' glass free. It was empty already and Chris only held onto it because it was too much effort to reach out and set it on the coffee table. Vin twisted a bit to set it down, forcing Chris to move, to reposition himself, leaving him more on top of Vin than tucked against his side, when they settled back down. Vin didn't seem to mind though.

Probably had been his plan all along if the smile on his face were any indication. Not laughing at Chris, but contented, like Buck had said. Quiet again, his own quiet, pulled from within, and Chris might never know how he'd found it again, or how hard Vin had been looking for it, but he was glad to see it back again. It drew out his own stillness, gave him time and space to think -- or maybe just feel, which was better. He'd been using his brain way too much recently and he'd be glad to set the random unordered thoughts aside.

This, at least wasn't new territory, at least not entirely. Regained ground that had been claimed weeks ago. Carefully, slowly. They'd kind of liked it slow. Chris still did, worrying less about hurting Vin or Vin hurting himself, but it was Vin who treated him like glass: barely there touches that skated up under his shirt to stroke along his back, or skimmed under his sweats to pull Chris in more tightly. The soft breathy sounds Vin made when they kissed, mouth wet and warm and open to Chris' questing tongue. Chris paused only long enough to raise himself up a little. "What are we doing?" he asked, not sure if the sofa were the best place no matter what it was.

Vin only grinned at him. "You getting out of practice there, Larabee?" he teased, but the laughter in his eyes wasn't mocking, the warmth there rivaling the fire or the whiskey warming Chris' belly -- along with other things. "We're doing it all. We got it all, Chris," he said, more seriously and lifted his head up.

Chris met him. They did at that, have it all. All of it they could hang onto, all that they could take back. They'd had time stolen from them and trust. Promises made had been broken and repaired. Promises not made sworn to and locked in.

But they didn't have forever, something Vin had known all along and Chris should have known but had managed to forget -- which seemed to be impossible. Just an indicator of how much he could deny.

But not this. He pulled back and up, stripping off his shirt and helped Vin with his, the fumbling off clothing and both of them trying not to fall off the sofa bringing on both laughter and a sense of need and urgency that Chris refused to give into. It would have been easier for one of them to stand up, but neither did it, like this sofa in the middle of the den was an island all their own. And it didn't seem to mater, only added to the need, light touches and the sight of Vin twisting and moving to keep as much contact as possible between them bringing Chris up hard and ready.

Vin was ready to, stroking himself then he fumbled a little with the drawer on the end table, rolling over to search out a tube of something -- hand cream, lube -- whatever they had tucked away in the drawer along with the pens and the outdated TV Guides, odds and ends and little bits of this and that. Like any house, any home.

Vin unfastened his jeans and lifted his hips, Chris stripping him of the denim then shimmying out of his sweats to leave them on top of the tangled pile of clothing on the floor. His hands sought Vin's shoulders, rubbing them, smiling when Vin dropped his forehead to the cushions and groaned in pleasure. Then he urged him up a little, fitting himself between the wide spread legs, the cream measured out and Chris stroked between the tight buttocks. All the exercising was doing interesting and pleasing things to Vin's ass, to the muscles of his thighs, but Chris could still see the ugly scar, even with Vin on his stomach and he rubbed cream into that too, Vin going still at that attention when he'd squirmed at the previous work of Chris' hand.

Vin's profile was to him, cheek pressed to the cushions and Chris pulled his hair back, pressed his face to the damp nape of Vin's neck and found his hand. Vin pulled their fingers closer, tucking them under him, lifting his hips slightly.

It might have been eerie otherwise, the house quiet save for the crackle and pop of the fire, Vin's breath hissing out softly as Chris drew a shaky one of his own, sliding his hand between the firm cheeks and guiding himself inside the warm slick place waiting for him. Then it was his turn to groan as he pressed deep, Vin's breath coming out in a chuckling gasp and at tightening of muscle that held firm as their bodies slid together and merged. Will gave way to instinct when Chris moved and Vin with him, getting his knees under him and reaching for his cock with his free hand, the other still held tightly to his chest and Chris spread his fingers, feeling Vin's heart thud beneath his hand and his chest heave.

Not a word from either of them, only the wet slide of flesh to flesh, then the inevitable slap of skin on skin. Chris bit Vin's shoulder gently when he stiffened, the small gasp of surprise and completion breaking the quiet and Chris thrust a little harder and faster, the scent of Vin's coming in his nostrils, mixed with sweat and the barest hint of whiskey. Vin's softening dick quivered when Chris touched it, feeling the slick on his hand, and he curled around his lover as much as he could, making the last few thrusts as slow and deep as he could and whispering Vin's name when his insides clenched, coiled, then released, all in a breath.

He pressed his forehead to the shallow valley between Vin's shoulder blades and stroked his belly until they both relaxed and stretched out a bit, Chris' dick still tucked warm and firmly between Vin's buttocks.

There was a flush to Vin's cheeks and his lips, lower one caught by his teeth, eyes half closed as his breathing became more even. Chris urged him gently to his side, giving his injured leg some release and some room to flex. He tucked an arm under Vin's shoulder, able to resume his stroking, his exploration of the smooth, warm skin and far better able to seek out Vin's mouth.

"Think maybe…" Vin whispered "We could call the boys and tell them to wait until Sunday?"

Chris grinned. "Maybe. You got plans?"

"Yeah…'bout thirty years worth…I'd like to get started."

"I've got a few plans myself…" Chris said, tucking his hand between Vin's thighs. "Maybe we should tell them to wait until next weekend."

Vin chuckled and twisted kissing him deeply and pressing full against him. "Could take a month or so…"

"Naw. Rest of our lives, Tanner. The rest of our lives."

 

#  Epilogue

** May 17th, 6:15 p.m., Larabee-Tanner Ranch**

Mud splashed high as Vin pulled to a stop and he swore softly as the brown stuff not only painted the side of his Jeep but washed in and over to soak his left boot and the bottom of his jeans. They needed to get a gravel truck out here and fill in the rutted potholes of the drive.

He left the Jeep in idle as he got out to check the mail, pulling out a thick stack of mostly junk mail and feed catalogs. You'd think they were running a full blown ranching operation the way the catalogs came in every other day.

A short walk took him to the heavy trash containers at the end of the drive and he flipped the lid off one to dump what mail required no more than a cursory glance. The trash pick up had only started the last month of so -- more convenient but it didn't bode well for the rapidly expanding development on Denver's south east side. There was a new subdivision going in just off the exit, and more than one owner of the small farms and ranches in the area were thinking about selling. Chris had already looked into some of those whose land abutted theirs. Luckily Paul Albertson seemed willing to stay until they carted his cold, dead body off to the city cemetery, and his wife felt the same. Their oldest was looking to inherit the land -- the only one of the three boys that wanted to stay on the farm, but things could change in five or six years. That covered the south side and Vin wouldn't be surprised to find out that Chris had a speaking agreement with Albertson and his son to have first option should they ever decide selling was more appealing than staying.

A catalog from a breeding farm caught Vin's eye and he tucked it under his arm as he sorted through the rest. On and off he and Chris had been talking about expanding, really expanding, the herd, and looking into the breeding side. They'd hit several auctions over the late spring and even bid on one or two stallions but more as a test than with any real commitment. What they did have was two new brood mares of excellent lineage, now occupying the stalls in the barn. Vin grinned at that -- those two had set off right from the start to teach Sire some manners and now they had him so cowed and meek, Vin barely recognized him. At least until he himself wanted the beast for something -- then Sire reverted back to his mischievous, surly self.

Buck was ready to throw in some money toward the endeavor, and surprisingly, so was Ezra, although he was leaning toward investing in what stallion they finally settled on.

More mail went into the trash bin, Vin sorting automatically as he thought about it. It might be worth his while to look into a particular bloodline. He had no idea who had bought Orochristos, the big red Juarez had castrated, but it was a fine bloodline and there was something in the idea that appealed to Vin, to see that bloodline continued, even as he got a nervous prickle between his shoulders when he thought on how he'd come to know anything about the animal at all.

A thick envelope stilled his hands and he scanned the return address, pausing before quickly sorting the rest and walking back to his Jeep.

Chris wouldn't be home for another couple of hours, a circumstance that had become more common as of late. The shake-up in the bureau hadn't sorted itself out yet, but all in all it didn't seem to be working out too badly -- it was just a painfully tedious process. The SOG teams would stand, but the regions would shrink. It would limit the autonomy of the division commanders but there was something to be said for only having to cover eight or nine states instead of a third of the country.

The envelope sat heavy on his lap and he stared at it, but it was addressed to both of them: Mr. Christopher Larabee AND Mr. Vincent Tanner, from a law firm Vin recognized, and he pulled his penknife to slit the top of the envelope carefully, pulling out the precisely folded collection of papers.

Title deeds, three of them: for the ranch, for the property in Texas, and the small plot of land Vin owned -- and now Chris owned -- not too far north. They'd put Chris' name on the lease on the apartment as well, taking out another year, and tended to spend one or two nights a week there, especially after a long day or if Chris had an early morning.

He'd made his weapons recert a couple of weeks ago, two months short of the deadline, but while his scores were up, he'd yet to have his skills tested in the field and he wasn't in any terrible hurry to see that through. Depending on which way Chris jumped, he might not have to.

The team was breaking up, a slow dissolve that left all of them feeling off-kilter and unsure. Josiah was talking to Research and Forensics, honestly, but with little enthusiasm. He could walk now, without the cane, but running, enough to pass even the minimal one-mile test wasn't looking like it would ever happen, or not soon enough to stave off reclassification. Once that happened, it would be another year before Josiah could try again, and by that time, Team 7 would have replaced him. If he made it, he could come back, but if Chris moved on, unlikely as it seemed, there wouldn't really be a Team 7 to come back to.

If Chris did take it, there wouldn't be much that would stop him from taking all of them with him, and it wasn't a bad fit for the most part. None of them liked the paperwork end of the job that much, except maybe Nathan, who'd make an excelling adjunct to Chris in the new position. But Buck could certainly handle the tactical end of things and JD would be a wiz at overseeing communications, save that he was young and his lack of seniority was likely to make his job more difficult, no matter how good he was with both communications and computers.

It would keep Josiah with them and Ezra as well -- and get Ezra out of the risky realm of undercover -- which Vin couldn't think of as anything but good.

Vin's own situation was less of a fit and even now, the accusations and suspicions of nepotism and favoritism were rearing their ugly heads. Despite Chris and Travis' commendations of his investigative ability, Vin knew his strength lay in how well he understood and handled weapons. He could work the analysis and appropriations side, step into a training position, or stay in the field.

Or he could walk away.

That option had been perhaps the catalyst for the most spectacular fight he and Chris had had to date. They'd managed to keep it out of the office for the most part, but the rest of the team had known something was a little chilly in the spring.

Vin hadn't made it any easier for Chris to see his side of it. He still wasn't entirely comfortable with a gun in his hands -- not in a general sense, but the idea of taking up his position as a sniper was something he still occasionally lost sleep over. And Chris tended to give that fact more weight than Vin thought it actually had in his consideration of his options. His own breaking point was forcing Chris to choose between them and the job -- and Chris already insisted there was no choice. Which there wasn't, because if Chris took the position, he'd hardly be willing to let anyone dictate to him who he needed to fill out the 20 slots that fell under it. But Vin wasn't willing to take a job on paper that could be more than competently filled by someone better at administration than he was and less likely to brew resentment within the bureau. He could apply for a position in the regional appropriations division, but it would take him out of Chris' purview and away from the team, even if they all still worked out of Denver. The new Central Logistical Clearing department didn't have anything close to what Vin was most qualified for, despite Chris' best attempts to get an armory position written in.

Chris wanted it both ways, but Vin couldn't see it and had told him so. They could stay where they were and lose Josiah, or Chris could move on and lose Vin. The choices didn't get any clearer to Vin's viewpoint and he'd been stubborn about it. As stubborn as Chris was being about making it work.

Either way, it would be a year before the CLC was up and running, funded and staffed. Josiah was willing to hang in for the latter half of the year and then transfer, but Chris would have to decide before then. And if he said yes…the team would be broken up anyway for a little while. McCall seemed sure he could keep them all in the region, but for a few months at least, they'd all be reassigned to other SOG groups or support teams. Right now, that was where they stood and it was a compromise none of them felt all that great about.

He parked the Jeep on the far side of the porch and got out, tossing the mail onto the kitchen table then changing to go see to the animals. They were all out, enjoying the sunshine and the new growth, with Sire following Darling Martha around like she was his long lost momma. Miraculous Clementine was more standoffish, keeping Legius company, more or less, near the empty hay bin. Legius treated the ladies like unwanted little sisters for the most part, but he was polite about it.

Oats and mash were measured out and the ladies led the way, happy to see him. Miracle expected and received a long scratching along her mane, but it was still Sire who got the largest slice of the apple Vin carried and he snorted as if to tell the others, "See? He likes me best."

"Spoiled rotten," Vin warned him, securing the stalls and making sure they had fresh water, then brushing them free of dust and debris. The girls had been rolling again.

It wasn't quite dark when he heard Chris' truck pull in, and he finished checking Legius' shoes. They had a blacksmith coming out to reshoe them all for summer, but they couldn't get an appointment until next week. In the meantime, Legius was showing a soft spot that Vin had been doing his best to keep clean and treated.

Vin wasn't surprised when Chris came into the barn, not quite able to sneak up since Clementine challenged anyone who came through the door. Legius whickered softly but didn't shift or try to pull his foot from Vin's hand.

"How's it look?"

"Doing all right," Vin said, finishing his treatment and letting the foot fall. Legius gave a small test stomp and Vin praised him, slipping him the last bit of sliced-up apple from his pocket. Chris held the stall door for him, closing it after Vin emerged and giving his own greeting to his horse. "I figured you'd be later than this."

"Hit a snag, and needed approval. I wasn't willing to rehash stuff that's already been written up," Chris said as Vin stripped off his gloves and washed his hands. Chris helped him secure the barn even though he hadn't changed anything but his shoes yet. Vin pulled the hose out to fill up the water trough in the corral, taking a sideways glance when Chris climbed up on the fence to sit, just staring mostly. He looked tired, although not nearly as tense as he sometimes was when he finished with these meetings. Finishing up, Vin recoiled the hose and came to stand beside him, shoulder to Chris' hip as he stared over the land. It was green and full now, wildflowers tucked in among the fence posts or in small bright mounds in the middle of the open space. The birds weren't ready to go to bed yet even though the crickets had started early.

Chris dropped his hand fingering Vin's hair where it had come loose from the pony tail he'd tied it back in. "You eat yet?"

"No. Thought I'd wait…" Vin said. "You?"

"Thought I'd wait," Chris said with a grin and dropped his hand, Vin stepped back and let him climb down. "Hi."

Vin grinned back at him, taking the obvious invitation and wrapping his arms around Chris in a proper greeting. "So, you leave in a huff or were you nice about it?" he asked, when they came up for air.

Chris slung an arm around his shoulders as they headed back to the house. "I don't think I pissed anyone off, but I can't say as it was intentional."

"They're going to think something's wrong with you."

"They already think that," Chris said. "Makes 'em cautious."

Boots were shed and Vin's jacket, Chris patting Vin's ass as he slipped by him to see if there was anything easy to rustle up for dinner.

They settled for sandwiches, getting comfortable in the den, with plates and chips and beers. It was too late for the early news, too early for the late edition and they split the difference on the History channel.

Halfway through their meal, Vin passed over the title deeds, watching Chris glance over them, a half smile on his face. "Guess it's official then," he said quietly, setting the paper aside.

"Legal anyway," Vin said, splitting hairs a bit. Their wills had come through a few months back, and a long conversation with Buck and Ezra had resulted in the two men being asked to act as alternate executors on their respective documents. Ezra was more surprised than Buck to be asked to stand second on Chris' will, but he had signed.

Harder or maybe just more awkward had been Chris' call to his family. Vin had yet to meet them, but it was planned -- and it was likely to be awkward as well, but the invitation to come for a few days in November, earlier if they could manage it, had been extended. Chris warned Vin that his sister was likely to show up unexpectedly.

"Looking out for you?" Vin asked.

"No. Just nosy," Chris said but he was grinning when he said it. He didn't speak of his sister often, but it was always with affection. Vin thought it might be easier to meet them one at a time, the idea of family, or more rightly, in-laws, made him a little nervous. There was Katherine, Chris' sister, married with two kids, and a younger brother too, Daniel, who had four children. Then Chris' parents and Vin took it as a good sign that they'd been invited at all, but it was still enough to make him half hope they'd have something big breaking in November. It must have shown on his face because Chris had squeezed his shoulders. "It'll be okay. Dan is the steady one, Kath's the princess. I've always been the trouble maker. It's not like they are going to ask about your intentions -- well, Kath might," he added with a wicked gleam and Vin swatted at him, but Chris' lack of anxiety about it reassured him more than words could.

Vin wasn't sure how they'd feel about knowing Chris' male lover would inherit all of his property and most of his assets should something happen to the eldest Larabee son. Chris had tucked away some money in CDs for his nephews and nieces, earmarked toward college or whatever else they wanted at twenty-five if they opted out of school, but that was pretty much it. There were some personal items, mostly stored but the rest of it, the house and property, the horses…life insurance, all of that would come to Vin. The reverse was true as well, but Vin had no family to feel left out or cut off. Intellectually he knew it shouldn't matter. The chances were about even that they'd both make it to old age, especially if they got out of the field.

Or one of them could get hit by a bus.

Chris fingered the papers again, then folded them up and slipped them back into the envelope. "This still bother you?" he asked.

Vin thought it over. "Not so much. It's just…something about it all being on paper like that." He sighed and got up to get them both another beer, taking the trip to the kitchen and back to think about it. "Not like it's a big, huge secret to most folks anyway."

"You want it to be?"

Vin scowled at him. "Just not used to having so many people know my business. It was okay…the guys. Travis. But...lawyers, your family. People we don't hardly know in the bureau. I guess I keep waiting for somebody to try and trip us up. Like Randall."

"You were the one that warned me about it…I knew this wouldn't be easy," Chris said. "It's better than wondering who knows and who doesn't or who cares and who doesn't."

It probably was, but Vin still felt odd and exposed. "I don't care that folks know…" he said, sitting down again and taking a sip from the bottle. "Just not.." he shook his head.

"Well, some of those people -- it's none of their business, is the way I see it and the rest…" Chris gave Vin's knee a nudge. "The rest is family, pard. The boys. Travis. My parents. Kath and Dan…although, we may wish they didn't know." A slow smile emerged. "Sometimes I think my parents like their in-laws better than their own flesh and blood. You might be a favorite." His gaze softened, and he caught Vin's hand, opening it to trace a ticklish pattern on his palm before closing his hand over Vin's. "They loved Sarah."

Vin gave his hand a squeeze and sipped at his beer. Sarah had been Chris' wife and she'd given Alva and Chet Larabee a grandson. He felt pretty certain Chris would warn him if things would be ugly -- hell, Chris would have turned them down for that matter -- but it wasn't the same. Might be for Chris, and Vin believed that too; that Chris loved him enough to defy his own family if it came to that, the same way he'd defied Sarah's father. But blood-kin, that was a whole other complicated thing.

But Chris was right that it was this sudden family Vin found himself a part of that was bothering him. He didn't know quite how to handle it, or what to think about it. Deal with it he would, until it became less odd, but right now it was new and strange. His world had widened exponentially by getting involved with Team 7 in general, with Chris specifically. From worrying about himself, then he and Chris, and equally worried about his other friends. Disappointing Ezra or Buck, Josiah, JD or Nathan was a whole lot different than failing to meet his own expectations.

Chris was watching him and Vin looked up to meet that gaze, warmed by the understanding he saw there and reassured by Chris not feeling the need to try and convince him that it would be all right. If Chris' family hadn't been able to convince him that the Navy wasn't the best choice for a young man -- and Chris's father had tried, preferring the Air Force -- it was hardly likely that they'd have much success at convincing their now 40 year old son that he was making a mistake.

"Had a brief talk with McCall before I left," Chris said, taking a sip from his beer. "Quantico's looking for instructors. Specifically, on the psych end. Physical evidence and theory."

Vin raised an eyebrow at that. "Josiah'd make a hell of an instructor and he'd like it better than the gut work here."

Chris nodded. "Haven't talked to him yet. It's a six to eight month rotation. They want field ops and not just theorists. He'd have to take a leave from active duty, but he wouldn't lose his classification."

It would buy Josiah time. "We'd still be down a man."

"Yeah, but it would be temp replacement, not a permanent rotation. Josiah could be training new agents and we could take one of those emerging from training to give him or her field experience, before they were reassigned."

Vin gave a low chuckle. "And how long as McCall been working on that?"

Chris gave him a faint smile and leaned his head back on the sofa. "He didn't. Jay Randall did. He's got the most open slots in field teams or will when they finish reorganizing the regions. He's also got the most port operations to cover on the west coast. He needs people who have some experience and they'll give him priority in filling those slots."

Which meant training or transfers. "So…North Central becomes the training ground?"

"With McCall at the head of it."

"Jeez, that's a lot of green agents. What about CLC?"

Chris took another sip of beer and then worried the label. "I'm not taking it, Vin. And no, it's got nothing to do with you," he added when Vin opened his mouth to speak. The green eyes flashed a little and Vin closed his mouth, willing to listen. "I'll finish the set-up, make sure whoever does take it over has the best organization I can build, but that only goes so far. Whoever gets that slot is going to have to fine tune it and it's better they don't come into it with any agenda other than making it work. North Central is going to be more involved at the Canadian border and if we train, we'll have, at any given time, more agents to deploy on cases. If Josiah takes the training position we'll get a rookie, but when Josiah gets back," Chris' tone indicated he expected nothing less than Josiah's full return to the team, "We'll still be taking on green agents. They're going to need the best and we're the best, cowboy. We always have been. You may as well get used to spending more range time, because you will be."

Vin let that sink in. He didn't mind teaching, never had. He'd filled in for the armory master more than once, he'd served on the review committee for appropriations -- most of them had at one time or another. No one knew better than field agents what tools would serve them best.

"It would mean putting the ranch on hold again," Chris added, more quietly. "We can breed, but we'd have to pay to board them out."

Vin didn't disagree. A pregnant mare would require more attention than they could give them still working in the field for the ATF. Boarding the mares out would likely eat into any profit they could make the first season or two. It was mostly Chris' money to gamble but Vin didn't feel he had any less investment than his lover in the plan.

"So, we get time for Josiah to get back a hundred percent, we get to herd greenhorns into the glamorous world of enforcement and we get to keep the team together, more or less. What's it get you, Chris? If keeping me on isn't the point, then what is? More work and not the pay you'd get taking over CLC."

It wasn't the money, and Vin knew it. Chris made more in hazard pay -- they all did -- than other agents made at base.

"Graceful exit," Chris said with a half grin. "McCall likes the training idea. He'd stay on for it. His own mini-Quantico. A year or two and…" he shrugged.

Chris wanted out. It maybe had more to do with Vin than he said, but not the way Vin had thought. Chris had said it months ago, that there would always be more bad guys than good and there was no way they'd ever stop them all. But they could make sure the people who took up where they left off were the best they could be. They could try anyway.

"You talked to anyone but McCall about this?"

"Just you," Chris said and twisted around on the sofa to face him. "I want this ranch, and I'm not willing to put it off indefinitely. So, now the question is, do you want this sooner or later, because if you're set on getting out, I'm going to stop fighting you about it. It won't change what I do or what I want."

But Chris' plan would give all of them time to get used to the idea instead of letting fate decide it for them. Strategy instead of making the best of a bad hand, as Ezra would say. Chris was giving him that. He'd be able to persuade Josiah to take the position -- Vin had no doubt about it and he wouldn't have to try very hard, he speculated. It would make Jay Randall happy and get him off their backs, off McCall's back.

Or Vin could sit back and watch foals being born on their own land. It'd make the money tighter without Vin's salary, and Chris would be in the field still.

He got up slowly, gathering up the empty bottles. "You want another?"

"Think I'll switch," Chris said and got up as well, heading for the bar and pulling two glasses. Vin dumped the glass bottles into the recycling bin and went to the big sliding glass doors. The corral was empty, the shadows starting to obscure the landscape as night crept in. But he didn't need sunlight to be able to see how the fields would look with the new foals kicking up their heels.

Chris offered him a tumbler, half filled with amber whisky and he sipped at it.

He could see Chris in the field too, with rookies watching his back. He'd have Buck and the rest of the guys and there wasn't anyone Vin would trust more to keep Larabee from doing something stupid than the five other men on the team. No one but himself. But that wasn't on Chris' mind even if it was on Vin's. It should have irritated him more, but he couldn't be too angry. Of all the things they wanted, Chris' plan got them most of them.

Taking over the CLC would have left Chris safer, but Larabee rarely played it safe, and Vin knew that he'd climb a tower, a building or a tree to overcome that weakness in his lover. The anxiety accompanying that thought was still there, but when it came down to choices, for good or bad, Vin knew he'd rather have his finger on the trigger than someone else's. No one else had so much to lose.

"You play dirty, Larabee."

An arm encircled his waist and Chris' chin rested on his shoulder. "I play for keeps, partner."

Vin leaned back and closed his eyes as Chris lips brushed softly against his skin. Yeah, he did. They both did. Vin turned his head, smiling a little and met Chris' gaze, steady, warm, bright with humor and promise. "Take your best shot then, cowboy. I'm with you."

"Already have."

Vin kissed him. There was nothing he trusted more than Chris Larabee's word except the man himself and nothing could take that from him, in this life or any other.

Vin Tanner played for keeps too.

-end-

**Author's Note:**

> **Author's notes: **Normally I make author's notes an optional part of any story I write, but bear with me here. What I know of the actual operational ethics or practices and policies of the ATF or any other Federal enforcement agency is largely speculative, extrapolated from what little I have been able to find in the references listed above. A portion of this story deals with the change in the awareness of terrorism and its repercussions in the wake of the September 11 attacks. It does not deal directly with that tragedy. As far as I know, the "Acceptable Hostage Loss" clause does not nor ever has or will exist within the procedural policies of the ATF. It is, however, what I think of as a reasonable extrapolation to any situation dealing with terrorism. In so far as the new awareness has left standing orders to allow military jets to force down any plane treading in unauthorized airspace, regardless or perhaps in respect to the possible lives on such a diverted plane or lives on the ground. Please be aware that I neither condone nor reject such an extreme measure, either in real life or in fiction -- it was and is presented as a possibility, a course of action that has serious consequences, and a topic that I felt the desire to explore. (And very possibly, because I've watched the replay viewing of "Speed" one too many times in the past few months.) MdR. 1/5/2004
> 
> **Rating: **NC17 for sex and violence  
> **Pairing: **C/V established relationship  
> **Universe: **ATF
> 
> **Acknowledgments:** There is no way I can adequately express my gratitude and appreciation to my betas, Antoinette &amp; Megan, who not only polished until this story shone, but who kept me on task and wrangled more than one straying plot line into submission. The story and I are much richer for their assistance and care. Thank you, Ladies! ~maygra


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